


August Blues

by roseclouds



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bonding, College Football, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marching Band, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Plans For The Future, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseclouds/pseuds/roseclouds
Summary: Lance McClain has a lot on his plate, with plummeting grades, teachers that despise him, and unrelenting commitments to the marching band only forming the tip of his college iceberg.Keith Kogane is the college's star quarterback, in it for the scholarship and the scholarship alone, yet expected to learn what it means to be a leader after being unwillingly thrust into captaincy in his junior year.The pair should have far more important things to worry about than making time for their budding rivalry, but what starts as a petty conflict over a rogue football and a shared fridge soon comes to offer more than either could have expected.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 66





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been a long time in the making and I'm so excited to finally be able to share it with you guys! I've loved working on this and I really hope you enjoy all the chapters to come!

The crisp morning wind nipped at Lance’s skin, rustling the paper in his hands and forcing him into performing a funny sort of dance before huddling close to Hunk in an attempt to keep warm until practice officially began.

With football season about to begin, signaled by the football team’s sluggish return from their brutally soul-destroying training camp, Altea State’s marching band was due to start learning an abundance of new routines. The band had been called down to the field for an early practice to get acquainted with their new formations and to review the overnight changes that had been made to the band’s lineup for the upcoming season.

As underwhelming as the lineup sheet that had been handed around was, it turned the wind around Lance even colder and quickly brought an end to his warmth-inducing jig.

Since his high school days, Lance had been playing the trumpet and marching at whatever football game, competition, or over-the-top schooling event that he was told to march at. And in that time, he had never, not once, impressed his band director enough to land the coveted position of section leader.

He was always too goofy, too loud, too boisterous to ever be considered for the role. His high school band director would cackle just at the idea of Lance rising to the challenge he was determined to conquer; but college was his chance to buckle down and focus (and possibly suck up to his new band director a little more, too).

Coran, the most comical professor Lance had ever encountered and the director of Altea State’s marching band, was on far better terms with Lance. Still, it was evident by the, in Lance’s opinion, insultingly small size of his name printed on the flimsy handout that he still had a long way to go.

Matt released a guttural groan, combing his fingers through his hair and slumping against the side of Hunk that Lance hadn’t already claimed. “I can’t even think of a word to describe how much I hate football season.”

“Don’t think too hard, your brain might short-circuit,” Pidge muttered, already tucking the sheet of paper into her clarinet case before her eyes drifted over to Lance. “Are you _sulking?_ ”

Lance pulled his eyes away from the page and surely enough, found himself face to face with Pidge’s quizzical stare. He stuffed the handout into the pocket of his gym shorts, feeling them grow increasingly damp the longer they sat out on the field. “This is the _fourth_ audition I’ve flunked. You can’t let me throw a pity party just once?”

“Well, you know what they say, fifth time’s the charm,” Matt said absentmindedly, trying to pick lint off his track pants.

Hunk nudged Lance and Matt off him so he could get to his backpack. “Look on the bright side, dude. At least you don’t have to talk to _Lotor_.”

An unattractive snort escaped Lance as he punched Hunk in the arm. “I swear he only carries around his baton outside of practice because he’s _compensating_ for something.”

Pidge scoffed. “Please, his baton isn’t even that big, either.”

With all the movements Lance had to memorize before the first game of the season, the last thing he needed to put up with was an overly pretentious drum major sending him dirty looks from his prime field position and otherwise ignoring anybody who wasn’t in a position of authority, and yet, that is exactly what Lance had to put up with.

“Anyway,” Hunk went on, clasping a comforting hand over Lance’s shoulder and easing some of the tension he was holding, “you’re only a sophomore, man. You’ve got plenty of time to impress.”

Pidge pulled a hoodie over herself as it became increasingly evident that Coran was too enthralled by his conversation with the coach of the football team to start practice anytime soon. “Are you sure it’s just that?”

“Just what?”

“Your audition and the insufferable presence of Lotor,” she said. “You look like you’re about to snap.”

Hunk sniggered, leaning in close to keep his voice low. “He’s convinced the quarterback drunk his ice tea from the common room fridge this morning.”

“I _saw_ him do it!” And snap he did. “It had my name written on it in bright blue marker and he still sipped right from the bottle and then _put it back in the fridge_.”

Hunk’s courteous volume, accounting for the fact that the football team were beginning to gather on the sidelines, was no sooner undone by the outburst. Matt fell back against Hunk once more, laughing enough for Lance to twist around and smack him squarely in the chest.

“Can’t you reprimand him?”

Matt raised a brow. “Reprimand him? No.”

“But you’re the resident assistant,” Lance argued, “who else is meant to deal with stuff like this?”

It was common knowledge within their group that the most Matthew Holt had ever accomplished as the resident assistant for their floor was lie to freshmen about all the outlandish rules they had to obey upon arriving in their dorms. A ban on forks and the imposition of a mandatory floor-wide interpretive dance every Thursday were the most memorable.

“If you read my job description,” he said, as though he had read it himself, “I can’t mend conflict until you create conflict. Did you talk to him about it?”

Lance sunk into himself, crossing his arms over his chest. Of course he hadn’t. He had been too busy gawking at the sight of the ever-famous quarterback wrapping his lips around his drink. “You’re useless. I can’t believe you guys aren’t mad about this.”

The others paid him no attention.

“You know, I heard from one of the cheerleaders that he doesn’t even _like_ football,” Lance said to himself, “he’s probably just out there for the attention and the chicks.”

Matt barked out a laugh. “If we’re talking about the same quarterback then trust me, that guy hates being in the spotlight more than you hate Professor Rizavi’s politics class.”

Pidge hummed in agreement and shrugged. “Honestly, Keith’s a pretty nice guy.”

Hunk gave a simple nod. “Yeah, man, I’m sure he didn’t try and get under your skin on purpose.”

“And if you’re so mad,” Pidge added, “go confront him about it.”

“No way! I’m not getting my lights punched out by a footballer over some ice tea.” Lance knew the limits of his courage, and bailing up a footballer in front of all his buddies that were the size of titans was _well_ beyond it.

“Cool,” Pidge said, “so, problem solved.”

Lance’s subsequent grumbling was cut off by the shrill sound of Coran’s whistle, beckoning the band over to the center of the field to review their positions.

Hunk extended a hand to help Lance up. “Do you think they’re gonna stick around?” He asked, gesturing at the footballers nearby. “My tuba is practically a walking target for that football they’re throwing around.”

Lance scowled, picking up his trumpet. “Better not. The field is ours today, fair and square.”

Coran climbed atop his step ladder to look over the slowly gathering members, directing the group into their first formation as Matt reluctantly left to tend to the tech station over by the bleachers.

Fair and square or not, while the coach of the football team had disappeared, his players were still very much present, strutting around like the owned the place. Lance could barely focus on formations, or his music, or anything at all for that matter, because the noise coming from the crowd of brutish jocks that lingered nearby had effectively drowned out any sound that Lance attempted to make with his instrument.

Their incessant whooping only died down as part of the team turned to ogle at the color guard members who had just arrived at practice, most of whom were too busy sorting through equipment to care. Though it seemed no sooner than Lance had pulled his focus back onto his footwork that the footballers returned to tossing the football between themselves, still standing far too close to the sideline to put the band at ease.

Of course, they were professionals; division one athletes who knew exactly what they were doing, or so Lance sincerely hoped. That football was safe in their hands, and Lance really had no excuse to be almost falling out of time because of his mounting irritation with the player’s decision to flaunt their talent on a field that _was not_ theirs between the hours of seven and ten o’clock on Wednesday mornings. However, his decision to put the players and their antics as far out of his mind as he could manage was swiftly interrupted.

The football that was being casually passed around the group landed into the tight embrace of the quarterback’s hands. He cradled the ball with a great deal of care — and then launched it out of his hold as though it had suddenly caught fire in his hands. It spiraled through the air in a horribly zigzagged pattern, soaring over Hunk’s giant tuba target to land a walloping blow right in the center of Lance’s back.

Lance’s trumpet slipped out of his hands the moment the ball knocked into him, his hands sprawling out in front of him in a failed attempt to break his fall as he plummeted face first into the ground, taking in a mouthful of bitter grass in the process.

Practice was promptly halted with another sharp blow of a whistle as Coran crawled down from his ladder to inspect the damage. The music and chatter ceased, leaving Lance to struggle in a humiliating silence before Hunk dropped his own instrument to rush towards him.

Coran looked positively shaken by the abandoned trumpet laying in the kicked-up turf, but the trumpet was the least of Lance’s concerns. The wind had been entirely knocked out of him, his breath shaky as he winced at the pain of what would undoubtedly become an impressive bruise by morning. He moved to wipe the dirt from his lips, though his muck-covered hands were rather unhelpful at doing so.

Grasping onto Hunk’s extended hand, Lance hoisted himself back up, stretching his back out with a suppressed grunt. The posture that he prided himself on during performances was far from the unappealing hunch he was presently bent over into.

Hunk flicked a blade of grass off Lance’s nose. “Are you alright, dude?”

Lance’s response came out as a low croak more than anything remotely intelligible, mostly on account of the culprit of the blow arriving at the scene, looking him over in a frenzy of panic.

Keith Kogane’s stare was unwavering. His head moved with Lance’s, eyes flicking across Lance’s body as if he was checking for damage. His dark tousled hair and stained jersey looked drastically out of place in amongst the uniform band, and his tentative movements made it obvious that he was well aware.

The footballers, who had fallen into a silent stupor while Lance was scrambling around on the ground had returned to their usual snickering now that their captain was rambling in front of the student he had just likely injured with his appalling excuse of a throw.

“I’m—” His hand was hovering unsurely around Lance’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

The boy’s voice sounded as breathless as it did during his postgame interviews; except he’d barely moved an inch the whole time he’d been out on the field, let alone sprint from end zone to end zone while dodging relentless tackles.

Lance waved the issue away with an uncaring hand, stumbling back into Hunk’s hold without offering the other more than a grunt. He seriously thought he could just stride over and not even apologize when it was _his_ responsibility as captain to clear his band of babbling jocks from the field instead of passing the football around like it was some kind of frisbee?

Even without Lance working to distance himself from Keith, Coran soon cut between the boys, cupping Lance’s chin so he could lean uncomfortably close and assess his pupils.

“Coran, I don’t have a concussion,” Lance managed to say, his voice muffled with the man’s fingers squeezing into his cheeks.

“Somebody take him to get some ice, we’ll resume practice in five,” Coran decided, releasing his grip so he could wave Keith away like he was a nosy fly, leaving room for Hunk to help Lance over to the bleachers.

Lance was all too aware of Keith’s lingering presence, his intense gaze no doubt following him as he was escorted off the field. A part of him was seriously regretting the fact that he had snubbed the footballer’s sorry attempt at checking on him, certain that Keith would yank him backwards by the collar and punch him across the jaw before he could even get some ice on his aching back.

But the punch didn’t come. Keith stood uncomfortably around the band for a moment longer before shrinking into himself, appearing much smaller than he did during a game as he rubbed the back of his neck and quietly returned to his team. Something told Lance he wouldn't have been so reserved if Lance had told him it was he who deserved a smack across the jaw.

“Lance, buddy, are you good?” Matt was jogging over with a water bottle, dropping various important looking cords as he went.

“Yeah, just peachy.”

Hunk eased him down as they reached the benches and gave him a soft pat on the arm. “I’m gonna get you an ice pack. Sit tight, okay?”

“Thanks,” Lance huffed, reaching down to brush off the cold mud that was drying on his knees. “Is this enough conflict for you?” He cocked a brow at Matt who only smirked.

“You know he didn’t mean to do that.”

“Yeah, yeah. He just _happened_ to make his abysmal throw curve around all the other band members to hit me _specifically_.”

“Yep,” Matt deadpanned. “Come on, man, everyone knows quarterbacks have superpowers, it’s basic knowledge at this point.” He handed over the bottle of water and poked Lance in the back, right where the ball had landed. “Is it sore?”

“ _Ouch!_ What the hell is wrong with you?”

He grinned. “Such a weakling.”

Lance used a lazy arm to push him back before turning to squint at the center of the field. “Did neither of you guys get my trumpet?”

“Oh, right... Well, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Matt knelt down to better meet Lance’s line of sight. “Did you uh, get your grade back yet?”

Ah, yes. Lance’s blow to the back was but a soft flick in the arm compared to the agony that his most recent psychology paper had caused him over the past few weeks, not to mention Professor Iverson and his passion for projecting sheer bitterness upon his students; particularly Lance.

“Yeah,” he said, averting his eyes to count the bits of grime that had collected on his previously pristine shoes. “I went past Iverson’s office on the way here to check.”

“Oh yeah? Top of the class?” There was an air of humor in his voice.

Lance sniggered at the possibility. “Right, in another reality, maybe.”

Still unlikely, he thought. A million realities and Lance would probably have the utter pleasure of being chewed out by Iverson in every last one.

“Seriously, though,” Matt said, “how’d you do?”

Lance shifted his shoulders weakly and Matt didn’t press him any further. The grades that hung outside of Iverson’s office were more humiliating than the band’s lineup sheet, and to top matters off, Keith Kogane’s name was the one that sat atop the class they shared together while Lance’s name trailed miserably behind.

But there was no celebratory “in your face” brag from the unfairly talented quarterback. Instead, Keith was muttering to the now huddled group of footballers, eventually prompting them to break apart and retreat from the field, taking their pig-skinned projectile with them.

Another poke in the back drew Lance’s attention away from the group. “Have you considered getting a tutor?” Matt asked. “I have a friend who’s doing his masters in psychology here. I’m sure he’d be happy to help you out,” he offered with a shrug.

“You know I genuinely have zero understanding of the entire course though, right? I’m a lost cause, Matthew.”

“Bullshit,” he threw back, “Hunk said you aced the test on sleep patterns.”

A sudden cold rush rippling down his back forced a gasp out of Lance, who then jolted at Hunk’s timely arrival with his much-needed ice pack.

“He did, should’ve seen the look on Iverson’s face,” Hunk added with a grin.

Lance shoved the ice pack under his shirt with a grunt. “Guys, I only passed that because my whole _life_ is a sleep pattern.”

Matt shushed Lance with a hasty flick of his wrist. “This guy’s _good_ , dude, I promise. He’s got an apartment nearby, do you want me to give you his number?”

Lance bowed his head and reluctantly returned a nod, handing his phone over to Matt. As embarrassing as it was to lay his abundance of failed tests and papers out in front of a stranger, the thought of phoning up his parents and telling them he’d failed a class was...sufficient encouragement.

“Sweet,” Matt said, handing him back his phone, “I’ll let him know you’ll call.”

“Thanks, seriously,” Lance said before peering back out onto the field. “I’m gonna get my trumpet before it gets trampled. D’you think Coran will mind if I ditch the rest of practice?”

Hunk shrugged. “Eh, I can tell him your brain was oozing out of your ears or something if you get me a taco on your way back to the dorm.”

“Done.”

Keith stifled a yawn into the sleeve of his jacket, shuffling into the communal kitchen to fill his mug with coffee.

The space was usually empty and quiet in the mornings, just as he liked it. It was a small opportunity to clear his head in peace before he had to slam a helmet on and work himself through practice as though he was being paid for it; which he most definitely was _not_.

Today, however, was not so empty and quiet at all.

Someone was humming along to something on the radio, and said someone was also planted right in front of the microwave, which just so happened to be the one appliance Keith needed to use; preferably before practice started and not after this guy was done dancing around the kitchen.

Heading down to the coffee house was certainly an alternative option, but the last time he was down there this early he was almost inducted into the drama club and cast in their faculty’s latest production of Cats. Too risky.

He eyed the stovetop and sighed. It was better than nothing.

The other student jolted when Keith cleared his throat and came into the room, the humming coming to an abrupt stop as the music on the radio was left to play on alone.

Keith looked him up and down now that he had a better view, and any drowsiness that was still lingering in his system was knocked out of him as though he had just been tackled to the ground by one of the Galra's biggest players. He quickly brought his eyes away from the coiffed brown hair he had initially been drawn to.

 _Shit_.

Wondering why he didn’t just take his chances with the coffee house, Keith took a clumsy step towards the coffee pot, bringing it over to the stovetop that was unfairly close to where the boy was standing. He half-expected to get chewed out for the entire floor to hear, but nothing was said. The boy only offered Keith an unimpressed glance before turning his attention to the microwave that still had several minutes to go.

Then, the guy stretched. He bent back and forth, twisting his torso around and making _sure_ Keith heard the small grunt he made when he rubbed a slender hand over the center of his back, right where Keith had landed his almighty blow yesterday. _Seriously?_

Keith brought his arms uncomfortably over his chest and pretended to have taken up a keen interest in watching the entrance to the kitchen.

He couldn't say anything; he shouldn't. Even if he didn't manage to get an apology out on the field Keith would just be taking up more of his time by doing it now, surely. I mean the guy looked so busy, what with watching the microwave blankly and all...

On the other hand, if Shiro found out he hadn’t righted his wrong when he had the chance, he could pretty much put money on the fact that he’d be grabbed by the ears and strung around the room the moment he stepped into his apartment.

Keith's fingers twitched involuntarily against his arm as he tried to force his eyes away from the other in the hope that it would kill the suffocating silence between them. He grasped the fabric on his shirt before bringing his hands back down to his sides, stomaching a despairing groan.

“You’re Lance, right?”

His question seemed to surprise Lance, who gave him a brief but scrutinizing once-over before turning his attention back to the microwave and responding with a disinterested “yeah.” If he was trying to make Keith feel like an asshole, _fuck_ , it was working.

And maybe he was, but even still, did he really have to keep looking at Keith like he was a certified puppy kicker? He was trying his best here.

He shifted the pot on the stove and scuffed his shoe against the floor. “You were right,” he eventually went on, “about yesterday. We shouldn’t have been on the field.”

Lance remained quiet. It was almost like he was getting a kick out of making Keith flounder in the silence. Scratch that, he was definitely getting a kick out of making Keith flounder in the silence.

Keith moved his arms away from his chest, averting his eyes only for them to spring right back onto Lance. “I really didn’t mean to hit you.”

Lance snapped his entire body towards Keith before he could even take another breath. “Are you sure?" He asked, his eyebrows were about as high up on his face as they could possibly be. "Because there was a hell of a lot of force behind that throw. Trust me, _I felt it_.”

Keith couldn’t help but wince at each word that hurtled towards him. He supposed he really had hurt him; not just enough to warrant him an ice pack, but enough to vex him for all eternity, apparently.

He shuffled in his place, wrapping his arms back around himself. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, “it was my bad. I swear it was meant to go long, but it slipped out of my hand.” A sheepish laugh escaped him whether he wanted it to or not. He was lucky his coach hadn't seen any of it unfold, or he'd be benched for the entire season.

Lance pursed his lips together and placed one hand onto his hip. “Aren’t you meant to be the star quarterback or something?” He asked, his voice dripping in smugness as his lips curled up at the sides.

The comment, as scathingly offensive as Lance had seemingly meant it to be, actually forced Keith to hold back a snort. It was maybe – no, without a doubt – the first time someone outside of his small circle hadn’t acted like he was anything special, and it was _refreshing_ even it was meant to piss him off.

But Lance didn’t stop there. “You know,” he added casually, “you’re a lot smaller up close.”

Never mind, he was pissed off.

“What?”

“Well,” Lance went on, “everybody’s always talking about how big and intimidating footballers are, but you’re not that big. In fact,” he said, squizzing Keith over, “I think I might be taller than you.” His eyes were practically gleaming with satisfaction.

“You’re not.”

His baggy hoodie masked most of his figure but from what Keith could make out, the guy was practically a twig. Taller, maybe, but that was something Keith wasn’t ready to admit, at least not out loud. He wouldn't be held responsible for feeding this guy's confidence like a Gremlin after midnight.

“I think am."

“No way.”

Lance made a small noise of annoyance and turned back to his food as the microwave let out several piercing beeps. He retrieved his plate and moved its contents around with a fork. Whatever it was smelled delicious and almost tempted Keith to blow off practice just so he could get something from the café across campus.

Picking up his food, Lance gave Keith one final glance. “You should probably get to practice and learn how to throw so you don’t lose the next game for us.”

And with that, he left, leaving Keith to almost burn his coffee while waiting for his mouth to decide whether it should frown or grin. Keith _had_ apologized, hadn’t he? Part of him knew he should call back after him and tell him to just _drop it_ already, but he couldn’t help but smirk to himself at the comment, letting his shoulders relax as his coffee finally seemed hot enough to take off the stove.

Some nerve.

Lance was beyond relieved to arrive back at his dorm. He'd had assignments dumped on him in each and every one of his classes over the course of the day, and Iverson's jabbering during today's lecture was so intensely bitter that Lance had even begun to crave the scarcely comfortable embrace of his suspiciously stained dorm couch.

What he didn't expect, was a slip of paper to greet him as he opened the door, demanding that Lance postpone his relaxation retreat to decode it.

If Hunk had forgotten his keys again Lance figured he would have been greeted with six-hundred text messages instead of an outdated and honestly unsettling messaging system. And if Pidge had visited while both of them were out, well, Lance was pretty sure she'd forged her own key at some point or another anyway. Regardless, the door was unlocked, Hunk had already made himself at home in front of the TV, and Pidge was nowhere to be seen.

Lance dumped his backpack onto the counter and picked the flimsy piece of paper up off the floor.

_You should probably get to practice so you don’t bore the crowd at the next game._

Oh, no _way_.

“Hunk, get over here.”

There was a soft groan from amongst the couch cushions. “Do I have to?”

“Did you see this?” Lance asked, flapping the piece of paper around in the air.

The pile of pillows on the couch broke away, falling to the floor as Hunk heaved himself up from the couch. “See what?”

“ _This!_ ” Lance thrust the note towards him. “Can you believe this?”

Hunk scanned the piece of paper, his eyes narrowing as he absorbed it. “Man, I must have walked straight past it, unless someone slipped it under the door recently. Who’s it from?”

Lance clenched his jaw. “Keith.”

There was no doubt about it. Nobody else would go out of their way just to try and be rude. His name even left a sour taste in his mouth, if that was anything to go by.

Hunk didn’t look so mad anymore. “Are you sure, man? It’s not like it’s signed or anything.”

“He tried to give me a spinal injury, Hunk. Would you put it past him?”

Seriously, what the hell was with this guy? He dazzled the crowd game after game, thank you very much.

Hunk read the note over again – every last condescending word. “Jeez,” he said finally, “maybe you should just apologize.”

“ _Me?_ ”

Hunk threw his hands up in defence. “I'm just saying! I told you calling him out was a bad idea, didn't I?”

Yes, a hundred times yes, and Lance could always count on Hunk to be his voice of reason in any situation, but upon finding Keith alone in the kitchen what was Lance supposed to do? _Not_ rile him up and taunt him?

A knock at the door made Hunk drop his hands. Lance huffed. So much for relaxation.

“I’ll get it,” he grumbled.

Hunk bowed his head in thanks, grabbed a bag of chips off the counter and made his way back to the couch as Lance pulled the door open to be greeted with—

" _What the hell, man?_ "

Keith’s face was inches away from his, his person almost falling into the dorm. His brows were knitted up in annoyance as he glared daggers into Lance's soul, delivering just about the least relaxing sight Lance could have hoped for.

It was absolutely clear that Keith was projecting his seething rage onto him, but that didn’t stop Lance from peering around in the hopes of finding another unwilling recipient of Keith’s unwarranted hostility.

"Uh, what?"

Keith scowled, only making him look more menacing as he let one of his hands reach up to grip the door frame. Lance felt a flush wash right over him. Jerk.

"Look, I'm not interested in a prank war, or a rivalry, or whatever the hell you're trying to start."

Lance shook his head back and forth like it would somehow enlighten him on why his nightly routine of flopping onto the couch was being delayed because of _this_. "Dude, I have no idea what you're talking about."

Keith tsked under his breath but composed himself; kind of. "Listen, I'm sorry if you took that note the wrong way, but that doesn't justify you taking six whole containers of my meal prep."

It took everything within Lance not to let out an indignant gasp. "Excuse me? I took _nothing_." What was this guy's problem? Was knocking him over in front of the entire band not enough for him?

"Do you think I'm an idiot or something?"

"Well,” Lance said, crossing his arms over his chest to mask the way his voice had shot up an octave in his exasperation, “you are accusing me of something completely ridiculous before even explaining it to me."

He could have sworn he caught Keith’s mouth snap immediately open in response, but he regathered himself with a gentle cough. "I made six containers worth of meals for this week and put them in the common fridge. I went to get them tonight and the containers were there but the food was gone."

He may as well have just announced he had sighted bigfoot, because Lance was definitely looking at him like he had. "And you think I ate it? All six containers?"

"Okay, maybe not ate,” Keith conceded, “but you did something with it."

"I didn't _touch_ your food," he said, emphasizing his point by prodding a finger against Keith's chest, drawing Keith's gaze down to where he had made contact before he withdrew his hand. "I don't have any reason to! My roommate and I have a fridge, and,” he said, pausing to point back at Hunk who was doing a pretty abysmal job at pretending not to listen in on their conversation, “my roommate is like, the best cook in the building. Why the hell would I eat your protein goop?"

Keith’s eyes didn’t travel towards Hunk, he just pressed his tongue firmly against his cheek like he was trying to stop himself from making another outburst. He sighed like it was Lance who had come to his dorm just to waste his time with this. "Like it would've been anyone else."

Come again?

Keith bit his lip, bringing his hand off the doorframe and back down to his side. His expression seemed to soften, his eyes losing their harshness as he appeared to mull over his next words in a more careful manner. "Look, I thought what you said in the kitchen was funny, okay? That's why I left that note. I wasn’t trying to be rude."

Lance blinked back at him. "Okay?”

" _Okay_ , so it obviously offended you, because who else is just going to throw out six containers of food that isn't theirs on a whim?"

Lance rolled his eyes, irritated beyond what any couch could cure. "Dude, I didn't eat, take, or throw out your food. Hunk, tell him I didn't take his food!" He called back into the dorm.

"I really don't want any part in this, Lance!"

Lance turned back and dropped his volume to a harsh whisper. "You know, you have some nerve coming to my door just to yell at me for something I didn't even do. Heck, I didn't even know your food was there!"

Keith scoffed, leaning over to one side against the doorframe. "Fine, whatever,” he decided. “I don't have time for this. If you're just going to be difficult about it then I'm leaving."

For someone who didn't have the time he certainly seemed to linger in Lance's doorway for a while before finally pushing himself off the frame, taking a step back and granting Lance a slither of personal space that quickly proved useless as Lance took a step into the corridor.

This time he allowed himself his indignant gasp. "You're not even going to apologize to me first?"

Keith's expression turned dark. He actually looked vaguely threatening in the shadow of the overhead lights. "Why would I do that?"

"For assuming that I'm some kind of food stealing asshole!"

"No," he said simply, looking back at Lance like he was daring him to challenge him right here in the corridor. "I'm just gonna go remake all the food that I should have already eaten by now."

Lance could have erupted with a plethora of petty comebacks, but an idea crossed his mind and he opted to offer Keith a smile that was all too sweet for his cutting tone. "You know what, why don't you go complain to the resident assistant while you're at it," he taunted.

Instead of reacting in the way Lance might have hoped he would (causing a scene and losing all respect for himself in front of the entire floor) Keith ran a tongue over his bottom lip and started to make his way back down the corridor.

"Maybe I will."

Lance took another step out of his dorm. "Great!” He called after him. “I'd love to know how that goes for you!"

"Good,” Keith called back, hardly even looking over his shoulder, “because I'm sure you'll be hearing from him soon."

As much as he could feel his blood boiling just at the mere sight of this hotheaded jerk retreating back to his dorm that was so stupidly close to Lance’s, he sniggered once Keith was out of sight. He’d pay money to see the look on Keith’s stupid face when Matt ignores every accusation Keith makes against him.

Hunk was gawking at him as he stepped back inside and closed the door, but Lance could only bother to sigh and brush the incident aside. God, he was beginning to crave his sacred downtime more than air itself.

Before he let his tired legs carry him over to where Hunk waited with snacks and a patient ear that was readying itself for Lance's incoming rant, he rummaged through his bag to retrieve his phone, locating his most recently added contact, courtesy of Matt, so he could cross one final task off his to-do list.

He brought his phone up to his ear, rubbing his thumb and index finger together as he waited for his call to connect.

“Hey, is this Adam?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait on this chapter! I hope you all had a great New Year’s ❤️

Lance wrapped his hands around the warm mug of coffee that had just been placed in front of him, taking in its sweet aroma and allowing himself one last glance at the mountain of notes that were spread out over the tabletop before finally taking what Lance considered to be a well-deserved break.

He had been at Adam’s apartment for a few hours now, and despite how intimidating his new tutor had initially appeared, peering at Lance over his glasses and raising a judgmental brow at the tattered state of Lance’s textbooks in comparison to his own pristine basket of expensive stationery he had unpacked, Matt hadn’t been wrong about just how talented this Adam was when it came to helping out pitifully hopeless undergraduates.

Sure, Lance still had no idea what the hell an electroencephalogram was, but he was damn near close to completing his understanding of every sleep disorder under the sun. And to be rewarded with what was quite possibly the most delicious hot beverage (sorry, mom) he’d ever tasted in his life while he inhaled the sweet aroma of a cinnamon and vanilla-scented candle? Yeah, Lance could definitely see himself coming back for another session.

“Good luck on your test,” Adam said, filing Lance’s notes into a neat pile, “and if you need any help beforehand just give me a call and I’ll do my best to help you over the phone.”

Lance unzipped his backpack, shoveling his textbooks back inside and taking care not to crease the page of notes that Adam had generously made up for him. “I _really_ appreciate this,” he stressed, “how much do I owe you?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Adam said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Keeping Matt out of my pantry – and my house – is payment enough.”

Lance’s bottom lip dropped slightly. “Are you sure?” Considering it had taken almost twenty minutes for him to sort the hangman games that he forced Hunk to play with him during class from his lecture notes, he figured Adam would have hit him with a triple-digit fee, complete with a receipt for the coffee he’d made for him. “I have, like, a few dollars in my wallet, or I can—”

“Really, Lance, it’s no trouble,” he said. “Any more questions before you go?”

About a million, including why on earth Adam had agreed to put himself through even more agonizing hours of educating him in the future, but before he could voice even one, he was interrupted by a head popping out of the kitchen.

A tall and muscular man emerged, managing to pull off a two-toned hairstyle without looking like was part of some amateur alternative band that played at the grungiest bar on campus in exchange for a free meal. It was honestly quite impressive.

Shiro, who he was introduced to upon arriving at their apartment, had been very politely keeping out of their hair as they worked, but was now waving his hand around in an attempt to catch Adam’s attention.

“ _Adam,_ ” he whispered harshly, holding his phone away from his ear as he spoke. “Keith wants to know if we’re doing dinner here after he finishes training.”

Lance’s ears pricked up at the mention of the name. Surely not. There was no way these nice people knew that guy well enough to have dinner with him.

Adam’s lips twitched in thought. “Up to him,” he replied, “but I’ll cook something if he does come over.”

“Alright, I’ll let him know.”

“Just make sure he showers first,” Adam hissed across the room, “I don’t want the smell of the locker rooms wafting into our apartment.”

Shiro gave a light chuckle, offering a thumbs-up and bringing his phone back up to his ear as he took his conversation into the kitchen.

Lance’s shoulders shifted up around his neck. _How the hell did Matt forget to mention this?_

“Everything okay?” Adam asked, handing Lance the last of his notes.

“Yeah,” Lance chirped, shooting him the same grin he gave Coran whenever he said he’d done the homework that he absolutely hadn’t and had no intention of doing. “Just out of curiosity,” he added as casually as he could manage, “are you talking about Keith Kogane?”

Adam hummed in confirmation. “His brother,” he said, pointing a thumb in Shiro’s direction.

Alright, time to go. He’d been thrown straight into a lion’s den and like _hell_ he was going to stick around to be accused of stealing a pen or a spatula or whatever well-deserved misfortune Keith felt like pinning on him today.

Adam must have noticed his slackened jaw because he sprouted a smile and asked, “are you a football fan?”

“Kind of,” Lance said with a shrug, contemplating whether or not he should speak the next few words that danced on his tongue. “Just... Not so much a fan of him.”

“Of Keith?” Adam quirked a brow at Lance, and for a moment convinced him that he was about to be thrown out of the quaint apartment – but then, he laughed.

He leaned back into his chair, amusement plastered across his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. “What’d he do this time?”

 _This time?_ Oh, he would definitely be reporting back to Hunk and Pidge about this. _Nice guy, my ass._

“He threw a football at me last week.” Check and mate, Keith.

“He did what?” Shiro returned to the living area quicker than a flash of lightning, still holding a damp dishtowel in his hands.

“Sorry,” Lance began, raising a sheepish hand to the back of his neck, “I don’t mean to trash your brother or anything—”

“No, really,” Shiro insisted, flinging the dishtowel onto his shoulder as he stepped closer to the table, “what did he do?”

If he wanted to sugar-coat the whole situation to save Keith’s hide from the brotherly wrath that Lance was all too familiar with receiving in his own home he certainly _could_ have, but he was all too content with the way Shiro seemed to already be chalking up an apology for Keith to handwrite and deliver to Lance’s dorm with an accompanying song and dance.

“He knocked me over with a football a couple of days ago while I was at band practice, and then just the other night he came barging into my dorm like a crazy person to yell at me because he thought I stole his food or something. Which,” he clarified, “I didn’t.”

Adam appeared to be desperately trying to hold back a laugh, but Shiro looked positively horrified.

“You didn’t?”

“ _Nope_ ,” Lance confirmed, popping the word on his lips, “I hadn’t even spoken to him before then.”

Shiro pulled the dishtowel down from his shoulder. “I’ll have a word with him about that,” he said sternly. “I’m so sorry, Lance.”

“Oh, really, it’s fine.” It took everything he had not to _beam_ at the disappointment he’d bred. “I should be going, though,” he said, slipping his backpack over his shoulder as he got to his feet. Best to skedaddle before Keith made both an appearance _and_ the executive decision to kick his ass.

“It was really nice meeting you both, and thanks again, Adam!”

Lance slipped back into his dorm, and even despite the risk of entering enemy territory, or the fact that he’d just studied for three times as long as he could usually bring himself to, Lance felt lighter than he had all week.

That is, until he saw Matt dwelling on his couch, engrossed with his phone and eating the mini donuts that Lance had been so eager to treat himself to when he got home.

“You know, last time I checked I only had one roommate,” Lance mused, crossing the room to open the blinds that had been closed in his absence, earning a groan from the other.

"Last time I checked," Matt mimicked, "you guys had noodles in your fridge."

"You," Lance said, sweeping around the couch to swipe a donut off Matt's plate. " _You've_ got some explaining to do."

Matt threw his arms up in defense. “It’s called being hungry,” he justified. “What’d you want me to do, pay for my own food?”

When Lance’s sacred donuts became casualties? _Yes_. But more pressing issues weighed on Lance’s mind.

“How come you never told me you were friends with Keith?”

“Never came up,” Matt answered through a muffled bite of donut.

“It definitely has.”

Matt shrugged, taking his sweet time to finish typing something out on his phone before granting Lance another slither of his attention. “You bring Keith up a _lot_. I’m not going to mention how he and Pidge used to have playdates in the third grade every time you do.”

“I do _not_ ,” Lance argued. He took the plate off Matt, leaving him with a final donut before moving the scarce remnants into the kitchen. “And what do you mean, playdates?”

“Me and his brother are like, best friends. I used to drag Pidge to their house whenever we had to study,” Matt spoke through his last mouthful of food. “Why are you asking?”

“Because _you_ sent me to get tutored in enemy territory,” Lance barked, slumping against the door of the fridge and trying not to let the question of how on earth someone like Shiro tolerated Matt enough to consider him his ‘best friend’ distract him from the issue at hand.

“Shenemy frenemy, Adam’s totally a neutral player,” Matt assured him with a lazy wave of his hand. “He’s great to study with, right?”

As much as his almost-encounter with Keith hadn’t looked good for his life expectancy, Lance couldn’t deny that the help he’d received heavily outweighed the horrors of quite possibly getting bonked over the head – probably with another football – if Keith had have known he was jabbering about his bad behavior right to his brother’s face.

“He’s like a god or something,” Lance said, releasing a deep sigh. “Honestly, I think he crammed more information into my head in a few hours than Iverson has in two years.”

“I mean, I was talking more about the stationary and scented candles,” Matt clarified, “but yeah, he’s a psychology _freak_.” He used his sleeve to wipe sugary remnants from the corner of his mouth. “Who knows, bud, you might actually pass.”

“ _Ha ha_. You’re officially banned from our kitchen.”

Lance knew fully well that passing wasn’t quite as easy as sipping on hot drinks and smoothing his hands all over the insanely smooth paper Adam let him borrow, but knowing that Keith was sure to get his just desserts when he stopped by his brother’s apartment? That was enough to put a smile on his face even if Iverson was inevitably going to smash it to pieces on test day.  
  


Keith unlocked the door to Shiro's apartment, bustling inside as he tried to perform a final search through his duffle bag in search of his jersey that hadn't been in there the last four times he'd checked on his way over.

He dumped his bag by the door, walking straight past Adam who was reading a novel on the couch, heading into the laundry and taking full liberty in opening up all the cabinets, standing on his toes to peer inside.

Nothing.

He fell back on his feet, almost knocking over the fabric softener that was teetering on the edge of the washing machine as he exited back into the living room, leaning over Adam to rummage through the pillows surrounding him, reaching his hand down the depths of the couch and wincing as his fingertips made contact with what was undoubtedly a vegetable of sorts that had fallen into the couch’s abyss at one point or another.

As he moved around to the coffee table there was a light crash; courtesy of his leg kicking into Shiro’s basket of cassette tapes which he made a quick move to steady. There was only one thing more horrifying than showing up unprepared to practice when Kolivan was having a bad day, and that thing was being on the receiving end of Shiro’s trademark frown of disappointment.

Adam finally put down the book he was reading, snapping his head up to look Keith directly in the eyes. "Can I help you?"

Keith picked up the cassette tapes that had fallen from the basket and out of their protective cases. He released a long breath. No damage.

"Is my jersey here?" He asked, returning the tapes to the basket and trying to mimic the way they had originally been arranged before standing up to give the apartment another look over.

"The dirty one?”

“It wasn’t dirty.”

“It had a snail stuck to it.”

Adam placed his book on the coffee table, moving over to the dining table where a pile of neatly folded clothes lay, retrieving Keith’s red jersey and holding it out for him to take. “I washed it for you."

Well, it felt softer in his hands, that was for sure, and had the lingering scent of sandalwood that definitely wouldn’t last once he got out onto the field. He was certain that Kolivan would have accepted its original state – snails and all – but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

Adam tilted his head over his shoulder as he heard the door click open, Pidge walking right inside not a moment later, wasting no time in wriggling around Keith to snatch an apple from the fruit bowl before perching herself up on the arm of the couch before she even said hello.

Adam watched her with bemusement as she quickly made herself at home. “Waiting for Matt?” He assumed.

“Yup,” she said simply. “Also—” she pointed a finger at Keith “—you’re in a load of hot water.”

“Huh?” He blinked back at her as she snickered into her fruit, meeting Adam’s equally amused gaze. “With who?”

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro’s voice called from within the kitchen, “I didn’t see you come in.”

He trailed into the living room with his hands on his hips. _Shit_.

“I was just about to leave,” Keith got out quickly, wheeling himself around to head for the door. “I’ve gotta be down on the field in a second so—”

“Not so fast, kiddo.”

Shiro didn’t even have to yank him back over to him; his tone alone was enough to freeze Keith in his place and _cringe_. Not ever, not even once, had that phrase ever preceded a good conversation.

But what had he done?

He remembered yesterday, when he accidentally bumped into the college president on his way to his mechanical design class with such force that he almost knocked the older man straight to the floor, but his only reaction was to brush off Keith’s shirt like he was a mint condition collectable figurine and ask Keith if _he_ was alright. He supposed working with his daughter, Allura, on a linguistics project some time ago ultimately came with more perks than just a competent study partner. Regardless, Alfor hadn’t seemed the least bit upset. It couldn’t be that, surely.

“Did you throw something at a band kid?”

Oh, he had to be joking.

“What?”

“Apparently,” Shiro began, taking Keith’s jersey out of his hands as if to stop him from making a break for it, “you threw something at one of Pidge’s friends.”

Keith’s brain ticked over Shiro’s words before he grimaced, scrunching up his nose and turning to Pidge who continued to snack casually on her apple.

“ _You’re friends with that guy?_ ”

Judging by her smile, she seemed to be enjoying the show, the traitor.

Keith’s comment earned him a glare from Shiro that pierced right through his very soul, and not even Kolivan’s explosive speech about timeliness that was sure to come his way (if Shiro ever let him live to see even just the next hour) could compare to it.

“He also said you screamed at him and insulted the band,” Shiro added, crossing his arms over his chest.

Keith’s brows furrowed deeply. Did this guy _tell on him?_ Like a third grader with nothing better to do than fish for attention?

“I didn’t mean to insult the band,” he reasoned. “I was trying—” he huffed. “I was trying to be funny.”

Adam directed a light nudge to Shiro’s arm. “Your brother, the joker.”

“I can vouch as a witness,” Pidge said, “Lance did not find it funny.”

Keith could only bring himself to roll his eyes and hug his arms around his torso. “Yeah, I figured.”

Shiro’s glare remained, and Keith’s silence only seemed to incriminate him even more.

Was he even guilty? To be fair, this _Lance_ hadn’t shown Keith any sort of kindness even after he had apologized to him. Though, in additional fairness, Keith had almost killed him with a football.

“I might have yelled a little,” he admitted, drawing his eyes away from Shiro who he wished for once would just ease up on the eye contact even a little, “but it was only because I thought he tossed all my food out of the common fridge.”

“But he didn’t, did he?” It was hardly a question.

No, he did not. The culprit was a freshman on the football team who cited ‘comradery’ as a reason why Keith should be nothing but positive about sharing his food around with people he barely even knew. But Keith had already spent the entirety of his evening following the confrontation kicking himself about even _thinking_ of blaming Lance for it. He hadn’t ever anticipated spending a whole night thinking about the guy, but he barely slept a wink once the guilt started to cloud his mind. Did he really have to confess and repent here, too?

“No,” he mumbled, “and I didn’t mean to throw anything at him, either. I was passing a football and it slipped out of my hand.” His grip around his middle tightened.

“It _slipped_ ,” Adam remarked, seemingly just to rub salt in Keith’s exponentially large wound.

“I wasn’t wearing my gloves!”

Pidge's following snort was understandable. He was always quick to get the bulk of his uniform off to stop himself from feeling like he was wearing a sumo suit, but the gloves that fit so perfectly to his hands could sometimes stay on for days.

Shiro sighed, his expression still stern. “You need to apologize to him, Keith. Especially considering that Adam's tutoring him now.”

Keith ended his staring contest with the floor as his mouth dropped open. "Seriously?”

"He's a nice kid," Adam reasoned.

Probably not the word Keith would have picked, but he refrained from offering a more fitting alternative.

“I already apologized for hitting him,” Keith told them, slumping his shoulders down in defeat. “It didn’t change a thing. He just told me to learn how to throw.”

"But did you apologize properly,” Shiro asked, his stare just as unrelenting as before, “or did you apologize the way you did to James when your gum got stuck in his hair?"

"God, Shiro, that was ten years ago." And frankly just as funny now as it was then.

Pidge slipped off the couch, groaning as he swatted Keith out of the way so she could get back to the fruit bowl for another free snack. “Can you please just apologize for the other night, too? If I have to listen to Lance whine about your insolence or whatever one more time, I’m going to lose my mind.”

 _Insolence?_ That was rich coming from a guy who was all too eager to snub Keith and then shamelessly use his brother-in-law as his grade savior.

“Fine,” he muttered, “I’ll do it the next time I see him.” _If_ he saw him, that is.

Shiro’s gaze softened as Pidge released a thankful sigh. “Thank you.”

“Seriously though, I need that back,” Keith said, pointing to his jersey, still grasped in Shiro’s hand.

He handed it gladly black to him now, with Keith taking small steps towards the door before it was even in his hands.

“Oh, and Keith, tell Kolivan I say hello!”

“Absolutely not.”  
  


Mud splattered across Keith’s neck as he landed in the endzone. He pushed himself up, but rather than receiving a clap over the back as he usually did, James was staring at him with a deep crease in his forehead.

“What play were you running?”

Keith’s brows furrowed as he threw the ball to him. “I dunno,” he shrugged, “I thought we were doing the forty-six.”

“ _What?_ There’s no way that was a forty-six, Kogane.”

Keith stretched out his shoulder, wincing at the tension he could feel building in his upper back. “Well, I don’t know, figure it out for yourself,” he said plainly.

James reached a hand to the back of Keith’s neck, tugging down on the hair that just scarcely poked out from his helmet, earning a loud grunt from Keith who didn’t hesitate to punch him in the arm and shove him backwards.

Keith (whether fortunately or unfortunately) met James in middle school, and considering that both of them were academically inclined and incapable of holding their tongue, they were doomed not to get along. School tests turned into ruthless battles to the top of the class and shoulder bumps in the hallways became fistfights on the football field within minutes.

It wasn't until Keith joined James on their high school football team that they were forced to tolerate each other for the sake of the team.

They still had tiffs over stupid things from time to time, but it certainly didn’t hurt to have a friend who was so eager to gloat about his grades that he unintentionally ended up giving Keith the answers to all the test questions he hadn’t gotten around to yet, much to James’ dismay.

But more importantly, Keith was glad to have someone around who refused to let his impulsive and usually terrible decision-making go unchecked, calling him out unapologetically and irrespectively of whether it would hurt his feelings or not.

It was particularly helpful this season.

Captaincy was weighing on his shoulders like nothing ever had before. Whenever their coach didn’t give the team a direct order, everybody looked to Keith, and he was kidding himself if he thought he had even the slightest idea of what to do.

He was a good quarterback, great even, but a leader? Not even close. And why Kolivan had even selected him for the role when there were far more capable men on the team was well beyond Keith’s knowledge.

He didn’t want the role and rejected it a hundred times before Kolivan almost fought him right there in his office. All he saw was potential and promise and a broke college student that needed all the help the full-ride scholarship that came with the position could give.

And he was right. It was the silver lining of Keith’s unrelenting stress that he knew would only grow now that the season was about to begin. With it, his place at Altea State was finite, and finally completing his mechanical engineering degree still with enough in his savings to pursue that field after he graduated was no longer uncertain. He just had to play his part for a little while.

So he bent down, tightening the laces on his cleats before he jogged back out onto the field to run another drill.

Rain pattered onto the concrete outside the auditorium as Lance ducked out the back entrance with his books pressed against his chest, keeping his head down as he made his best attempt to steady his shaking breath.

He wasn’t crying. No, that would be stupid. Iverson wasn’t worth a single tear, not even out of frustration and – _ugh_.

He tucked himself up on a bench that was at least somewhat protected by some foliage above. There were hardly any other students around, most of them smart enough to find a place inside rather than out once the rain had begun to fall.

But it had been a rough day, and honestly, Lance couldn’t have cared less about the drops of water that spattered over his head and burst as they met the surface of his skin. He was too preoccupied trying to figure out how Mister-Perfect-Quarterback had just scored a ninety-one in Iverson’s class while Lance had just been told he was on track to fail if he didn’t turn his grades around.

He knew, at least with Adam’s help, that it wasn’t an impossible feat, but having Iverson’s cold, dead eyes stare right into Lance’s just to tell him that he was capable of achieving nothing in his class really takes the spring out of a guy’s step.

He took a deep breath. _Get it together, man._ Even without many people around, the last thing he wanted was for someone to see him sniveling on a bench like some out-of-depth freshman who had just been hazed.

_Just think of Hunk’s cooking. Just think of Hunk’s cooking. Just think of—_

No. No no no. _Why?_

Keith was keeping a quick pace, pulling his duffle bag closer to his person to shield it from the rain, ruffling his bangs that were already soaked with what looked like sweat. He kept his head down as he neared the library that stood just behind Lance, but god, why couldn’t he just keep his damn eyes to himself?

His pace slowed as he caught sight of Lance, staring at him like he was a cockroach that had just made a sudden and unwanted appearance on his bathroom wall. There was a flicker of hesitation before he decided to come to a complete stop, either not as bothered by the rainfall as he had been just a moment ago or opting to ignore it.

His unmoving eyes made Lance shift uncomfortably in his place, forcing him to look anywhere else. Why couldn’t he just sulk about being a failure without being bothered and antagonized about it as well? Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so, because Keith was now heading straight for him, walking slower as he chose to occupy himself by fiddling with the strap of his duffle bag on his way over, as if he was longing to delay his arrival.

Lance could only wish he wouldn’t arrive at all, but his presence was impossible to ignore once he stood directly in front of Lance’s face, stooping over him with a vaguely puzzled expression.

“Are you cr—”

“You are literally the last person I want to see right now,” Lance snapped, pulling his hood on, not to block the sheets of rain but to try and erect some kind of barrier between them.

From what Lance could tell, with his refusal to look back up, Keith hadn’t moved.

“I gathered,” he replied curtly. There was a beat of silence before, “do you usually sulk in the rain?”

Lance clenched his jaw, lifting his head ever so slightly. That asshole was smirking at him.

“Do you usually stick your nose around in other people’s business?”

“Only when they look like miserable wet dogs,” came Keith’s response.

Lance’s mouth practically fell open, his neck snapping up to stare Keith down. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Keith stared back, but he didn’t look quite as scheming as Lance had expected. Then, rather than pointing out his swollen eyes or something else as equally rude, Keith dropped his bag at Lance’s feet and sat down beside him.

Lance’s body went rigid. “Dude, which part of _leave me alone_ don’t you understand?” He said through gritted teeth.

Keith didn’t say anything, didn’t even look over at Lance, just stayed quiet as he mopped some droplets from his forehead.

Lance urged his shoulders to stop being so stiff, forcing his back to straighten back up and not look so damn pathetic. No way was he letting this guy bug him out. This was his mental breakdown bench and his _alone_.

“My professor’s just a dick, okay?” He said eventually. “But I’m _fine_ and you can _leave_.”

Keith jumped slightly as his voice broke the silence, turning just in time to watch Lance shiver very uncoolly as a raindrop rolled down his back.

“Who, Iverson?”

What, did Lance have to knock his last point into him and shove him all the way to the other side of campus or something? To his knowledge, he hadn’t signed up for therapy sessions in the rain with apathetic asses.

“He is,” Keith continued, “but there’s no point letting him get in your head. Pretty sure he’s got a permanent stick up his ass.”

Lance’s stupid mouth couldn’t help but smile at that, and he was quick to turn his head at an angle that ensured Keith wouldn’t see.

Keith’s hands closed around the material of his track pants as he seemed to try and find the words he wanted to say. His entire demeanor was so unlike that hothead who had banged down Lance’s door. He was, dare Lance even say it, _shy?_

“Listen, I uh, wanted to apologize for the other night,” Keith said with a voice that was far too gentle in comparison to the gravelly shout from that previous incident. “I shouldn’t have assumed it was you.”

Lance clicked his tongue and turned back to meet the other’s eyes. “Yeah, that was pretty shitty of you," he agreed, and oh how he took pleasure in watching Keith’s eyes widen at his blatant statement. "Not as shitty as almost knocking my lungs out of my mouth,” he added, “but I digress.”

Rather than getting defensive, Keith actually appeared to relax, releasing his grip on his track pants and smoothing them down. “You’re never going to get over that, are you?”

“Oh, I will,” Lance said, “but one time, I saw you drink my ice tea out of the common fridge, and I’m _definitely_ not over that. I mean, dude, it had my _name_ on it.”

It was unprecedented. Barbaric. Of course Lance was going to bring it up while he was at it.

“I did that?”

“You did.”

Keith gave a soft chuckle before he dropped his head with a huff. “Jeez, you must think I’m a real asshole.”

Lance frowned at the fact that he couldn't even answer with a resounding yes. “Eh, an asshole probably wouldn’t have sat with me just because I looked like a miserable wet dog,” he mumbled instead.

Keith snickered under his breath. “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

Lance twiddled his thumbs as he turned to stare down at his lap. This was...weird. There he was, expecting a punch in the face as the cherry on top of his bad day, when he was instead confronted with oddly effective comfort and an apology.

Lance sat on his hands, worrying his lip before summoning his ‘bigger person’ or whatever.

“You’re uh, forgiven though, I guess,” he tried once the rainfall no longer provided enough background noise to mask their awkward silence.

Keith quirked a brow. “You guess?”

Lance pursed his lips together, forcing the smile that twitched in his cheeks to take a vacation. “Pretty generous of me, I think.”

He received a quizzical look in return, followed by a slow nod. “I guess it is,” Keith reasoned, “considering your missing lungs and all.”

The smile that finally sprouted on Lance’s face was all teeth as Keith grabbed his duffle bag, shaking it out to fling droplets of rain off its surface before he stood up and looked back down on Lance.

He scratched the back of his neck slowly. “Hey, if you’re interested, they’re handing out free pizza slices outside the Olkari lecture hall right now,” he said with a shrug. “Might be a nice pick-me-up.”

“Oh,” was all Lance could think to say. “Thanks.”

Keith offered a small nod, wrapping a hand back around the strap of his bag before he was gone again, stuffing his other hand into the pocket of his jacket and bowing his head as the rain continued to fall.

And it was unfair. Because even if it was only because he didn’t want his brother to decimate him, that scowling jerk really had just backflipped into some awkward teen just as Lance was absolutely certain that they were a glance away from setting each other’s dorms on fire.

Okay, so maybe Keith was not quite the fire-breathing idiot he had made him out to be, but what the hell was he meant to do now? Make him a friendship bracelet?

He ran his fingers through his hair with a deep sigh. Free pizza. That’s what he’d do. Stop worrying about the consequences of ratting out Keith to his big brother that he had clearly overimagined in his head and get his hands on a nice, warm slice of pizza.

The halls were clear as Lance almost stumbled down a flight of stairs, narrowly planting his foot on the landing beneath him in the nick of time, using the extra space to try and rearrange the cruelly large load he was carrying.

Matt had just sprinted back to his dorm to get the lighting plans that Coran had requested, leaving Lance to carry his crate of unruly cords down to band practice. Then there was Hunk, who had told Lance to bring his tuba down since his class was running overtime, said instrument now weighing on Lance’s shoulder as he tried to steady it with just one arm. _A tuba._

To top it off, he had his own heavy backpack doing nothing to aid his balance, as well as his trumpet case that was barely balancing atop Matt’s crate as he carefully moved down the next flight of stairs.

That’s when his trumpet case began to slide off the crate, his grip slackening right as Hunk’s tuba decided to twist around and completely block his vision.

His knees buckled, coming together to act as some sort of makeshift safety net for the crate to fall against as his hands shot up to keep a very necessary hold on his trumpet case and the godforsaken tuba that would fall right down the stairs and make an obnoxiously big dint in the floor – not to mention also likely setting Hunk back a few thousand dollars – if he didn’t allow it to sink into his shoulder painfully.

He was stuck. Maybe forever.

With what little movement his head still had without putting his instrument-saving pose at risk, he looked around – for anyone, really – but alas, the empty halls were practically beckoning Lance’s doom.

Then, he faltered, his balance wavering as his trumpet case fell, not onto the ground and cracking in a million pieces, but into quick-thinking hands that reached for it like it was their grandmother’s antique vase.

“Woah, careful,” Keith said, holding the case by its handle and using his other hand to steady the crate that was millimeters away from tipping its content out all over the floor. “Do you need some help with that?”

And as much as Lance longed to be able to reject the offer and carry the whole load down the stairs with ease as Keith watched him with awe, that fantasy was virtually impossible; especially considering how close Lance was to toppling over himself and how much air had been lifted out of him at the other’s sudden arrival.

“Thanks,” he said instead, “that’d be great.”

Keith placed Lance’s trumpet case on the floor with care, proceeding to hug the crate under one of his arms, using the other to inch the tuba down from Lance’s shoulder before hoisting it up onto his own in one smooth movement as Lance watched uselessly on.

How he had possibly managed to harness that much strength from his honestly underwhelming size, Lance would never know. The sheer will of trying to make Lance look bad, maybe?

“Where do you want this?” He asked as Lance reached down to retrieve his case.

“Uh, the band room.”

Keith looked to his left, then to his right, then back at Lance. “I don’t know where that is.”

Right.

“Down the stairs, turn left, then keep going down the hall and it’s the third room on your right.”

And off he went, carrying the weight of a coyote on his shoulder like it was nothing and making Lance feel ridiculous for trailing behind him (somewhat out of breath) with only his backpack and his case.

He had never had much of an opinion on Keith before their scuffles in recent days. He was always just some reserved kid that preferred to slink away from the attention that was generally flung his way. If anything, his biggest fault had been sporting the grumpiest face known to man at Iverson's lectures, but Lance was pretty sure he just... _looked_ that way. So maybe their misunderstanding really was just that; a misunderstanding. Maybe it was time to put his pride on the shelf and just admit that he misjudged him.

Keith was mumbling Lance’s directions to himself as they neared the band room, but rather than just dumping everything at the door once they had arrived, he nudged the door open with his thigh, allowing them both entry before he waited for Lance to instruct him on where to move next.

The instruments that had been warming up came to a not-so-subtle stop as Keith moved awkwardly through the music stands and into the spacious area just in front of Coran’s currently empty desk.

Lance almost fell down the stairs and _still_ made it to practice on time? Truly a miracle.

“Just here?” Keith gestured to the space with a nod of his head.

“Yeah, there’s fine.”

Keith set everything down like he was handling fine china just as Coran came into the room, offering Keith a cheerful smile and most likely mistaking him for the percussionist who had been absent for three sessions now; _just_ enough time for their identity to completely escape Coran’s memory.

Lance motioned down at the equipment in silence before clearing his throat. “Uh, thank you,” he managed to say, “for that.”

"Don't mention it.”

He kind of, sort of smiled at Lance, looking flushed despite not even breaking a sweat on the way down here. He lingered uncomfortably in his place for a moment longer, not doing so well to ignore all the pairs of eyes that were on him before giving Lance a single nod and taking his leave.

Lance slumped into his seat, taking his thankfully undented trumpet out of its case and pressing it against his lips, begging any deity in existence to spare him from whatever snarky comment Pidge was about to send his way from her chair across the room.

To be seen fraternizing with his self-proclaimed enemy that he'd already gone to great lengths to vilify...? His ultimate shame. His yearbook highlight. Pidge's new go-to blackmail material.

He blew hastily into his trumpet and produced an ungodly squeak that he was willing to argue was solely because he had just lugged minorly weighty materials down a few stairs, obviously.

“What was that all about?” Pidge asked, leering at him as he tried to get his uncooperative sheet music to stay upright on his wobbly stand without much luck.

“Just shut up and watch Coran.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day everybody! I come bearing the gift of oblivious fools 😌

Keith closed the door to Shiro’s apartment behind him as he came into the living area, the slow creak of the door drawing Shiro out of the kitchen where the light sizzling of a frying pan was barely masking Adam’s soft humming. The entire room smelled of plum sauce.

“Ah, you’re here!”

Shiro looked almost too pleased to see him, waiting on the balls of his feet for Keith to put his bag down before speaking again, wearing that expectant smile that Keith knew all too well.

“My car was playing up today, do you think you could take a look?”

 _There it is_.

Keith moved swiftly past him, slinging himself into one of the bar stools facing the kitchen and greeting Adam with a nod before helping himself to one of the bananas that lay in a neat bunch beside him.

“Sure,” he said plainly, tilting his head back to meet Shiro’s eyes, “if you bring it into the garage.”

He couldn’t help but snicker at Shiro’s barely audible huff.

“Can’t you just look it over here?” It was almost a whine.

"I can look," Keith offered with a shrug, "but I'm not fixing it for free."

Shiro traded his optimism for a frown the instant the words left Keith’s mouth. "Not even for me?"

" _No_. I might have a full-ride but I do have other stuff to pay for, you know." He didn’t make a lot of money working at the nearby garage, but it was still enough to thoroughly depress his bank account at the prospect of missing out on a job.

Shiro nodded as he released a long sigh. "I know, I know,” he said, “I just thought you might give me a good-old brotherly discount." As much as he feigned defeat, the tone of his voice was still distinctly hopeful.

"Well, you _are_ old..." Keith made an effort to tap his chin in thought as though he was actually mulling it over, interrupted by Shiro elbowing him sharply in the middle of his back.

"Alright, you’ve made your point, you scoundrel," he said with a chuckle. "I'll call Antok and make an appointment, yeah?"

"Yeah, and make sure you didn't just spill coffee over the dashboard again."

Adam barked out a laugh but kept his attention on the slowly cooking vegetables that he was frying over the stove.

It had happened one too many times, Shiro bursting into Keith’s room in a cold-sweat because his car wasn’t starting properly only for Keith to discover streaks of sticky coffee jamming the gearshift in place or interfering with the dashboard.

Shiro clicked his tongue, pointing a stern finger at him. "That was one time and I was in a rush."

Keith nodded in mock understanding. “Whatever makes you feel better.”

He took the seat next to Keith, training his eyes on him as he tapped his fingers rhythmically across the kitchen counter. “So," he began slowly, "how did it go with Mister Band Kid?”

“Fine.”

But Shiro’s gaze didn’t let up, instead silently encouraging him to elaborate for the sake of his own unquenchable curiosity.

Keith huffed. “I apologized,” he tried again. “We talked for a bit, which was nice, I guess.”

“Oh yeah?” Shiro’s lips had curled into a knowing smile, just as Keith had expected them to.

“ _Stop_ looking at me like that. I doubt we’ll be skipping through meadows anytime soon,” he grumbled.

Shiro pressed his palms against the counter, leveraging himself up out of his seat to make his way over to the other side of the kitchen and wait on standby as Adam's relatively unskilled kitchenhand. “Well, you can always save the meadow skipping for another time. At least for now you won’t have to stare daggers at each other,” he teased.

Keith could hardly even bring himself to roll his eyes. Lance was certainly more tolerable than he had expected – pleasant, even – but even then, getting that chummy with him seemed like an impossible stretch.

The only reason they had spoken in the first place was because Keith had almost concussed him, and now that all that had been and gone, he wouldn’t be surprised if he never heard from Lance again. And that was... Okay.

“What time are you heading out, Keith?” Adam asked, gesturing for Shiro to bring him the bowls that were stacked beside the sink so he could begin serving up his culinary creation.

Keith made a small grunt. He’d _almost_ managed to forget about that. “Soon,” he said with a deep breath, “probably after we eat if I can be bothered.”

Keith, largely against his will, was expected at a fraternity party being held in honor of the first match of the football season that was taking place tomorrow.

Generally, he was a rare sight at parties. He would occasionally arrive with James after incessant begging before slipping out the backdoor a few minutes later, or show up after a game thanks to his team dragging him along with them despite his pleas to go back to his dorm and plant his face right into his pillow. As for attending on his own accord? Entirely unheard of.

But considering the party was intended to raise school spirit and support the team, James had kindly reminded Keith that steering clear of the event would likely result in the football team ambushing their captain in his dorm and carrying him down to the party themselves; mattress and all if necessary. The worst part was Keith didn't doubt them for a second.

At the very least, making an appearance did allow Keith to keep a better eye on his team. Because even though a portion of his teammates were respectable people that he could trust without having to put a leash on them, the other half were a bunch of airheaded buffoons who got legitimately excited at the prospect of tackling each other on the lawn and shotgunning beers until they puked.

Frankly, Keith couldn’t less about what these people wanted to do in their free time. He was their captain, not their mother. However, turning up on gameday only to find out that an alarmingly large percentage of their players had to be benched after returning a positive alcohol test was not a scenario Keith wanted to come face to face with – again.

“Such charisma,” Adam mused. He pushed a bowl filled to the brim with rice towards Keith before moving around to join him on the bar stools, leaving Shiro to carry over the trays crowded with meat and vegetables. “Need us to call you when you get there and fake an emergency?”

“ _Please_.”

Shiro frowned as he lowered one of the trays down in front of Keith. “You really should stay awhile, Keith. I never see you hanging out with those people.”

“ _Those people_ are hard to be around for prolonged periods of time.”

“Oh, come on, I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

Keith responded by piercing his fork violently into a piece of broccoli. He supposed it could be a thought somebody _might_ have, if that somebody had been spared the company of jocks all their life, that is.

Shiro snorted out a laugh that housed zero sympathy for his brother. “Well, if you need help getting back to your dorm, give us a call,” he said, clapping a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Unless you’re out later than eleven. Then we might not answer.”

“Shiro, the party doesn’t start ‘till eleven.”

“Ah. Right.”

“Anyway, I’ve got practice at six in the morning and a game after that,” Keith explained. “So, at least I’ve got half an excuse to be outta there early.”

Adam grinned to himself, sharing in Shiro’s amusement at Keith’s unfortunate situation. “I don’t envy you, that’s for sure.”

The party was already bustling with people as Keith arrived on the front lawn of the fraternity house, stifling a yawn and silently willing himself to somehow manifest the motivation needed to make it inside as the dull thud of the music inside knocked against his head.

In his defense, he was better suited to early night during the football season. His brain often refused to cooperate, but he did what he could to be in bed before his body would pay the price in the morning, which is exactly why he was already mapping all main exits and keeping his eyes peeled for anyone he knew so he could know how best to avoid them later.

However, the moment he hopped up the front steps and into the residence it became all too clear to Keith that he would be lucky to get out of there before dawn was creeping up behind him.

James had already set up camp just past the entrance, having claimed a wall to lean against as he chatted up whoever would lend him an ear before he even had a drink in his hand. Ryan stood grudgingly behind him, wearing the same sweatpants he'd worn to training earlier that day and holding his bottle of water with an iron-like grip like it was the only thing keeping him sane.

Ryan Kinkade was the team’s most talented fullback, and though Keith had only met him a little over a year ago when he had officially been inducted into the team, they seemed to bond with ease once they were both scolded for scoffing in the middle of one of James’s pre-game speeches that sounded as though it was straight out of a bad movie.

He spotted Keith easily amongst the crowd, gladly relinquishing his role as the world’s least enthusiastic wingman to meet Keith by the door.

“Thank god you’re here,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I think I’m about to lose my mind.”

Keith peered over his shoulder at James, who had just been bluntly turned away by one of the cheerleaders Keith recognized from practice. “That bad, huh?”

“He’s killing me. I don’t know how he can get so bigheaded without any alcohol in his system.”

“Seems to be his natural talent,” Keith replied, snickering as they both turned to watch James fuss over the collar of his shirt and adjust the band of his watch like he wasn’t the least bit bothered by his apparently lacking charms.

Ryan took a swig of water, shaking his head as James caught the attention of the most recent guest to walk by. “I’m gonna get something to eat before I end up passing out upstairs," he said. "You want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll see you around?” He didn’t exactly mind tackling tonight by himself, but it was certainly a lot easier to have someone around to distract him from whatever the hell those two teens were doing on the couch that Keith was standing far too close to for his own liking.

“Yeah, just look for the sleazebag on the dancefloor later,” Ryan said as his eyes darted towards James. “I’ll probably be nearby.”

Ryan – poor Ryan – did not deserve the fate he’d been handed, but Keith was less than willing to sacrifice his own sanity and take his place; not to mention the fact that staying by his side no longer sounded like a viable option for sticking out the night. He hadn’t forgotten the way that James would always end up inching himself towards the speakers as the party dragged on until he was practically on top of them, thinking he had a _way_ _with_ _movement_ before proceeding to humiliate any member of the team in a ten-foot radius and giving himself a splitting headache just in time for their game the next day.

Perhaps he’d let his fatigue win out after all. He wasn’t quite a senior yet, but heck, surely he’d earned the right to nap through a party instead of feigning interest in— _seriously, what were those teenagers doing on that couch?_

Keith parted from Ryan’s side, opting to skirt around the edges of the crowded room to avoid the handful of partygoers who always managed to stir themselves from their drunken stupor to weave through the masses and ambush Keith with meaningless, agonizing chit-chat that James would _never_ rescue him from, instead choosing to simply watch him from the other side of the room with a grin so big that it barely fit on his face.

Managing to avoid any unsolicited conversations, Keith grabbed a cup and filled it with liquid from whichever bowl of soda didn’t reek of vodka before slipping out the backdoor onto the back porch, hissing through his teeth as the wind nipped at his cheeks.

It was hardly the most exciting place to be – and yes, most of the people gathered under the heated lamps on the porch were either complaining about the music playing inside or sloppily making out – but the air was fresh and the music was turned to a muffled hum once the backdoor closed behind him.

Other than the warmth of the outdoor lamps, the only thing of much interest was the game of beer pong that was going down on the lawn, interjecting the quiet chatter with whooping cheers every now and again.

It didn’t exactly shock Keith when he recognized Matt standing by the table, very obviously wasted and almost knocking over several of his own cups as he punched the air in celebration after landing a ping pong ball in his opponent’s cup.

It was definitely one spectacle to distract himself with, but Keith ended up paying more attention to the empty deckchair that seemed to beckon him over. If he was lucky, maybe he could fall asleep and – if he was _really_ lucky – wake up when the party was well and truly over, able to make his way home without even having to craft himself a string of excuses or face the crowds inside again.

He plopped himself down on the deckchair, bringing his drink up to his lips as he scanned over the lawn, attempting to find some kind of entertainment in the drunks on the lawn.

Sighing deeply, he let his eyes close as he relaxed back into the chair, grunting and pulling himself immediately upright when he was met with a squeaky waterproof pillow that was damp with...something he wasn't sure he wanted to identify.

He slipped his phone out of his pocket. He’d been at the party for a whopping — _fifteen minutes? Are you kidding me?_

He’d made his presence known to James, who had most been expecting his arrival, and at least nodded at a handful of other people on his way to the porch. Now he was sitting here, at the party, _making an appearance_ just like he was meant to. What the hell else was he supposed to do?

Somebody over by the back of the yard was talking loudly about how they _swore_ they saw a possum scurry across the fence and seriously, Keith was about to eat his own hair. The fact that he considered, for even just half a second, that the _possum rumors_ were worth getting in on just to cure his deepening boredom was ridiculous.

He took another sip of soda before he made a mental plan to slip back through the party and out the front door. So long as James didn’t catch sight of him and drag him back to the dancefloor by whatever extremity he could grab hold of, there was actually a chance Keith could make his great escape to no one’s knowledge _and_ get in a good night’s sleep back at his dorm. Though, knowing James, it was unlikely.

He released a guttural noise, stuffing his phone back into the pocket of his jeans and adjusting his posture against the deckchair that was becoming increasingly uncomfortable the longer he sat in it.

“Man, you look miserable.”

Keith almost choked on his drink, his nose wrinkling unattractively as the carbonated bubbles of his drink fizzled up through his sinus and made him splutter out a raspy cough.

Lance stood casually beside the deckchair, looking down at Keith as an amused smile bloomed on his lips.

So, perhaps there was one more thing of interest on the porch.

Keith looked up at him as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, clearing his throat but finding no words to respond with, instead gaping up at the other with a stupidly vacant expression.

“Didn’t even think you’d be here tonight,” Lance added when Keith remained quiet, swirling the liquid in his own cup around, probably so that his eyes could focus on something other than Keith’s frankly unnerving stare.

He forced his eyes to soften, pulling them away from him while his brain worked overtime to try and figure out why exactly Lance had decided to talk to him in the first place if not to simply point out his misery and leave him to waste away in the deckchair.

Managing to fashion the unusual posture he had shifted into when Lance’s sudden arrival had almost scared him out of his skin into something more natural, he eventually responded with a very boring “yeah, neither did I.”

Lance gave a light chuckle, tapping the rim of his cup as their unexpected conversation then swiftly dissolved into an awkward silence that Keith all too obviously brought about.

“You kind of strike me as a party person, though,” he added quickly in an attempt to revive the exchange rather than submit to whatever mind-numbing fate awaited him once Lance walked away. “How come you’re out here?” That was a decent conversation contribution, right?

“Oh,” Lance said, smiling to himself before he looked out onto the lawn. “I came here with Matt, but he’s had—” he counted on his fingers pointlessly before dropping his hand against his thigh “—let’s just say a _lot_ more drinks than I have, and I feel like I’m way too sober to join him over there just yet,” he explained with a sheepish grin.

“So, what you’re saying,” Keith said, drawing the words out on his tongue teasingly, “is that you’ve been ditched for beer?”

Lance’s light expression quickly turned stern. “ _No_. I’m saying that my friend is an idiot.”

Matt's idiocy didn't need any kind of confirmation. It was a fundamental part of him that was ever-present. Still, Keith tilted his head over to the game of beer pong that was still unfolding, partially into chaos. “Yeah, he is.”

Lance nodded, rocking back and forth on his feet and biting down on his bottom lip as their conversation once again slipped away from them and one beat of silence turned into twenty, backed only by the quiet chatter of the few groups around them.

“Hey, uh, if you’d rather I just leave you alone that’s totally fine,” he said hurriedly. “I know you usually keep to yourself, but I just thought since we cleared the air the other day and you're here by yoursel—”

“—It’s fine,” Keith said, probably a little too quickly and _definitely_ a little too loudly. “I really don’t mind.”

Lance responded to Keith’s confirmation with a toothy smile, his voice not as uncertain as it had been when he said, “you’re right, by the way, about being a party person.”

“Oh yeah?”

He hummed, taking a sip of what appeared to be punch. “A few drinks and I’m actually like that guy over there.” He pointed not-so-subtly at a guy inside who was shamelessly standing on top of a fragile-looking table and busting a move to an ABBA song as though his life depended on it.

It was odd. Not so much the embarrassing tabletop dancer who was hardly a surprising sight at a party like this, but the way Lance lingered around him, apparently not striving to add another hindrance to Keith’s evening, or namedrop a hundred other wrongdoings Keith had committed against him, but to keep up a friendly appearance.

Also odd was the way Keith felt a strange likeness to the moth fluttering beside him, unwillingly being drawn into the soft glow of the porchlight.

Or maybe it wasn’t so odd at all. They were, as Lance had mentioned, both standing out in the cold, by themselves, watching a mutually known moron get progressively more intoxicated as the night drew on. If anything, it almost made sense.

But whatever it was or wasn’t didn’t seem to matter. All Keith was really sure of was that yes, he did just in fact relax his shoulders at Lance’s stupid comment, and yes, he did just feel the urge to continue a conversation with someone he barely knew, and yes, he would be taking this information to his grave to save himself from the inevitable taunting that would follow if Shiro ever found out that Keith was now attending a party on his own terms and not just because someone was keeping him there against his will.

He shifted in his seat. They weren’t _friends_ , per se, but judging by Lance’s willingness to hold a civil conversation with him, they also weren’t on _bad_ terms. To be fair, though, Keith probably still would have stuck around and risked another falling out with Lance rather than have his boredom lead him over to the topical possum drama that was still going down at the back fence.

Maybe he could stick this party out after all.

“I think I gotta witness that,” he mused as the tabletop dancer almost plummeted straight to the floor. He gestured to the backdoor. “Need me to get you some drinks?”

Lance gave a gentle snort, shaking his head. “I’m trying to butter up my band director, and I don’t exactly think showing up to the first game hungover would bode well for me,” he said. “What about you though, tabletop dancer yourself?”

A laugh teetered on Keith’s lips. “No chance.”

Lance leered at him, playfully nudging the toe of his shoe against Keith’s. “Not even after a few drinks?”

“ _Maybe_ ,” Keith began, “but I’d rather not get strangled by coach tomorrow, thanks.”

Lance's stuck his bottom lip out as though he was really missing out on something. “Remind me to drop by a party when the season ends, then,” he said, his face brimming with amusement as he was no sooner met with a poorly executed scowl.

He took another sip of his drink, shivering as a gust of wind rippled past them and pierced through the light hoodie he was snuggling into. His face failed to hide his grimace, and it was all too obvious that the only reason he was freezing his ass off under an underwhelming heated lamp was to make sure Matt didn’t pass out on the wet grass and choke on his own tongue or something.

“You should head inside,” Keith said abruptly. “You look like you’re about to turn into an icicle.”

“And go stand by the drinks table all by my lonesome? I’ll pass.”

“I mean, I can come with you,” Keith said before he could even consider whether or not he could bear going back indoors, or, you know, handling whatever this unlikely situation was. “ _Uh_ , only if you want me to, that is,” he added hastily, wondering whether he’d ever actually learnt how to talk to another human being.

But Lance didn’t appear to be uncomfortable. Instead, he watched Keith with a widening smile, smitten with Keith’s overwhelmingly obvious discomfort. _Sadistic bastard_.

He shrugged. “Sure.”

Well, Keith certainly didn’t expect that.

“Do you wanna go upstairs, then?” Lance asked, his eyes soon growing to be the size of saucers as he caught sight of Keith’s downright dumbstruck expression. “Not like that!” He squawked, flapping his hands all about. “I just meant, like, you know – it’ll be _quieter_ up there,” he managed to say.

And Keith didn’t want to laugh at the way Lance rubbed the back of his neck and caved in on himself, but he was damn near close to doing just that as that smug smile he had been sporting quickly vanished from his face.

“I know what you mean,” he assured Lance's frantically flying arms, “but can you guarantee we won’t see someone getting it on?”

It was an unfortunate consequence of all of Keith’s house party detours; an undeserved visual punishment just for seeking out a quiet place to sit.

Lance lowered his hands, his brows raising at the thought before a bashful laugh broke past his lips. “I cannot.”

Keith stood up, tentatively meeting Lance’s eyeline before he downed the rest of his soda. “C’mon,” he said, turning towards the backdoor, “I’m sure we can find a place.”

Miraculously, Lance had spotted a couch, an actually _empty_ couch that was situated far away enough from the heart of the party for them to not have to strain their vocal cords trying to communicate with each other.

They kept a modest space between them as they sat down on the two-seater, though Lance was quick to get comfortable, moving to drape one of his arms casually over the back of the couch while Keith was still stuck in his head, wrestling with the dilemma of _where the hell do I put my hands now if I’m not holding a cup?_

Even if this situation was quickly proving to Keith that he had nothing to be suspicious about, how had that been so obnoxiously and unfairly natural for him? Keith wasn’t even certain that this wasn’t a prank yet.

“ _So_ ," Lance began, stretching out the word and pulling Keith's wandering eyes onto him, "what do you get up to off the field?”

He was watching Keith closely but his eyes were hardly scrutinizing. Their attentiveness instead seemed to confirm that no, this was not a prank, just a genuine attempt to keep not only himself but also Keith company as the music blared and the lights flashed, coating them in technicolor hues.

“I'm uh, not sure if it counts since I’m kind of studying it, but I’m pretty into mechanics," he said, instinctively rubbing his ear. "Like, fixing cars and stuff...”

Most students in his course were aiming for the top, aspiring to build machinery and anything else that would land a ton of money in their pockets. Keith, on the other hand, was satisfied with his job at the local car garage and the fact that most of his downtime was now filled with rummaging around in engine parts and scrubbing oil off his hands. Hardly glamorous, but it was work he enjoyed – _really_ enjoyed. It wasn’t, however, particularly exciting; at least not as a conversation starter.

“Woah! That’s awesome,” Lance exclaimed, inching forward. "Are you just into cars, or do you geek out about anything with an engine?"

It had to be the first time anybody had taken more than just a half-assed interest in his grimy hobby.

"Anything really," he answered sheepishly under the weight of Lance's steady gaze, "but I fixed up an old bike recently, so I'm hoping I can work on some more of those soon."

“Man, I _wish_ I could turn my hobby into a career,” Lance continued seamlessly the moment Keith closed his mouth, “I love music, but I’ve been warned about a hundred times by my mom that playing guitar in my room at six in the morning while everyone’s still asleep doesn’t count as a viable career option.”

A smile – and definitely not a grin – graced Keith’s lips. So he was a talker, then.

“I bet they really appreciated your trumpet practices, too.”

Lance snorted at the thought, bowing his head shortly after. “Don’t even get me started. I had to go down to the local park because every house in our street could hear me otherwise.”

It was hardly surprising. With the sheer energy this guy was radiating onto Keith’s exhausted body just by making casual chitchat, he wouldn’t be surprised if Lance could make an entire neighborhood aware of his presence while armed only with a set of musical spoons.

“So what respectfully quiet career option are you studying for instead?” Keith asked. “I’m guessing anything but psychology, considering how much grief Iverson gives you.”

Lance tittered behind the cup that was raised to his lips, shaking his head in agreement.

Before Lance could answer, though, Keith’s attention was abruptly caught by wildly waving arms, not unlike those of an impatient mom trying to catch her kid’s attention on the sidelines of a middle school soccer match.

James was standing a few meters away from where they were seated.

He beckoned Keith over impatiently with his hand once he had eventually been spotted, completely ignoring Keith’s deepening glare that quite clearly said “go away, you obnoxious jackass, I’m in the middle of a conversation.” Even Lance was now turning his head to see what all the commotion was about (not to mention just about anybody else in their vicinity who was sober enough to notice).

“I think you’re needed,” Lance pointed out, still eyeing James who hadn’t let up, his hands continuing to motion Keith over.

Keith tsked under his breath and turned his focus back to Lance. “Sorry, can you gimme a minute?”

“Sure thing, I’ll save your spot,” he joked, patting the space just beside Keith’s thigh.

Hold on. He was actually going to just sit there and wait for him? When he could be occupying himself with anything or anyone else?

Keith scowled, already missing the comfort of the couch as he heaved himself up onto his feet. James better be fucking dead or dying.

He marched over to the other, greeted with a satisfied grin.

" _What?_ "

"I—" James's mouth hung open mid-sentence as he peered over Keith's shoulder. Donning a smile that Keith was tempted to rip right off his face. "That's that guy you almost knocked out, right?" His eyes were undoubtedly locked onto Lance until he moved to punch Keith in the arm. "Hey, look at you go! Made any moves yet?" His tone made Keith's skin crawl.

"It's not like that," he grumbled.

"I’m _kidding_ , christ, would it kill you to lighten up?"

Was that really what they looked like over there? They were practically sitting a foot apart and they hadn’t even made any real conversation yet. There was no way.

Keith's expression was starkly contrasted with James's smug glow, but any further retorts about James’s assumption were soon interrupted as his nose caught a whiff of cheap wine lingering on his clothes.

James leaned back as Keith stepped closer to sniff his collar. "Have you been drinking?"

"Fuck no! Why, can you smell it on me? Because I was kind of making out with someone who was."

Keith groaned, running an impatient hand through his hair. "What do you want, James?"

The other's snarky aura was dropped, replaced with the usually composed James Griffin that Keith only scarcely preferred. "When are you heading out?"

Keith's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Don't look so suspicious, Kogane, I just wanna know if you're sticking around much longer. I need someone to watch over my stuff." He gestured at the phone and wallet in his hand.

Honestly, Keith didn't have a clue when he'd be leaving. He had planned on escaping this noisy hellscape some time ago, and if he hadn't wound up in whatever kind of social exchange was currently happening over on the couch, he would have.

“Can’t you just leave it on a seat? Or, I don’t know, pocket it?”

James’s eye twitched, his jaw clenching as though Keith had just suggested he throw his phone off the upstairs balcony. “Keith, this phone costs more than my apartment's rent. It’s not a fucking Nokia three-thousand.”

“Aren’t those worth a lot these days?”

“ _Keith_.”

Keith sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll probably only be here for another few minutes, so, probably not." What an absolute lie. "Sorry."

"S'okay, don't sweat it, I’ll just go find Ryan,” James said with shrug. “Dunno where he got to, but anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, make sure you get some rest in tonight,” Keith instructed, “and keep your tongue to yourself.”

“Anything for you, captain.” James sent him one final smirk before turning to squeeze back through the crowds in search of Ryan who Keith knew had likely already bolted back to the dorms at the mere mention of his name.

He shuffled back over to where Lance was sitting, grooving slightly to the beat of the song that was playing before he brought his movements to a halt at Keith’s return, raising a curious brow at him.

“Are you in trouble?”

“Not today,” Keith grumbled as he sat back down with a deep sigh, settling into the couch where he hoped to stay. “Sorry, you were saying something about your degree?”

“Oh, right!” Lance straightened up in his place, leaning closer as the bass of the next song grew louder, vibrating through the floor. “I’m majoring in marine biology,” he half-shouted over the noise.

“Woah, seriously?”

“Yup. I barely scrape by in my classwork, and most of my other electives are music and history related, but no one reading my resume has to know that,” he said, shooting Keith with a lazy finger gun.

Keith bit back a smile. It was no wonder he was doing so badly in psychology with that as his motto. “Are you planning to go into the field after college?”

“Ah, probably not. At least not right away,” he said softly. “Marine biology’s kind of terrifying, you know, with trying to act all academic and stuff? So I think I wanna catch a break before I go into it fulltime.”

“That’s fair,” Keith said. “Some kid in my course got an offer to work for NASA, but he turned it down because he wasn’t ready to commit to fulltime work yet.”

“ _NASA?_ For real?” Lance’s eyes bulged. “I mean, I used to be a junior lifeguard in high school and I’m great with kids, so I thought maybe swimming instructing could be fun for a little while, but if _NASA’s_ offering?” He placed a gentle hand on his chest. “I’d sell my soul to the fulltime grind in a heartbeat.”

Keith pursed his lips, nodding absentmindedly. It was hardly an opportunity he himself would have taken, but it was tempting nonetheless.

Lance began to tap out a rhythm on his knee, filling the lapse in their conversation before he shifted to face Keith again, offering him an oddly warming expression.

“Hey, congratulations on making captain, by the way,” he said, "everybody's been saying it was just a matter of time."

“Oh, thanks,” he managed to say alongside his effort to unstick his eyes from Lance’s. “It was honestly kind of unexpected.”

“You didn’t want it?” Lance’s attentive eyes weren’t for nothing, watching closely at the way the corners of Keith’s mouth had pulled themselves into the smallest of frowns. “Couldn’t you have said no?”

“It’s uh, a little complicated.”

“Like, you would have gotten kicked off the team complicated?”

“Not exactly,” Keith answered, cracking a smile. “I just couldn’t really afford to be here without some kind of scholarship. My high school gym teacher said I had the potential to get at least a partial-ride if I worked for it. That’s why I started playing football in the first place.”

“I'm guessing it all worked out?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, “I got offered a partial-ride when I started on the college team as a freshman, but captaincy was offered to me with a full-ride. I couldn't exactly turn it down.” He averted his eyes pointedly. “Still don’t know why coach would risk putting the team in my hands, though.”

“Seriously? You’re like, the most talented player on the team.”

Keith looked up to find Lance blinking back at him like it was obvious. And sure, he’d heard things like that at least a hundred times before – but why the hell did it feel so good coming from Lance?

“Talent has nothing to do with being a good captain,” he murmured. If it did, he probably wouldn’t be sweating excessively out of every crevice of his body just at the thought of leading the team into their first game tomorrow and all the eyes that would be glaring a lot more than just daggers at him if something went wrong.

Lance gave a reluctant grunt of acknowledgement before perking back up with another explanation. “Maybe it’s to strike fear into the eyes of your opponents,” he suggested, furrowing his brows in what Keith could only assume was a bad attempt at looking threatening.

“Huh?”

“Well it’s like, check out _this_ guy,” he said, placing his cup in between his thighs so he could move both of his hands around as he spoke, “he’s not only the _star_ quarterback, he’s the captain, too. And he’s _fast_ and _agile_ and packs a pretty mean punch, all while being the _shortest guy in the league_.”

“ _Hey!_ ” He leaned over to pinch Lance’s arm before he could even think about what he was doing, watching as Lance yelped and pressed himself as far back as the armrest of the couch would allow him to.

Judging by how pleased Lance looked at the indignant expression that was now planted on his face, that had definitely meant to rile him up.

Lance rubbed the spot on his arm that had been targeted, using his other hand to weakly swat Keith away. “It’s true!”

“I’m not that short.” It was more of a mumble; a reminder to himself.

Lance positively beamed, bursting into a stream of laughter not a moment later at the look of exasperation on Keith’s face.

“Doesn’t James Griffin call you pipsqueak?”

Maybe he did still hate him. That would at least explain how delighted he was at the realization that he’d just found a soft spot of Keith’s to exploit for all it was worth.

“That _spread?_ ”

Who the _hell_ on his team had gone around telling people that?

“I think it suits you,” Lance said as his trembling lips did a terrible job at concealing his grin, “though it’s not nearly as good as ESPN calling you the ankle-biter.”

“Wha—”

That was definitely news to Keith. He busted his ass every damn day at training, pushing himself to the brink of exhaustion to win games and keep up appearances as a model athlete, and ESPN had the nerve to give him nicknames like he was in elementary school?

“ _Why?_ ”

Lance was having way too much fun. “Because,” he teased, his eyes crinkling up at the sides as his smile did the exact opposite of fade, “you’re too little to attack any higher and you’re always such a hothead.”

Keith let out a short huff as he felt his cheeks flush red. He didn’t _feel_ irritated, not when Lance was sitting across from him, his shoulders lightly shaking as he calmed down from his giggle fit, but that seemed to be the only explanation as to why his body felt so stupidly _hot_.

“Hey,” Lance said, “trust me, it’s better than some of the other nicknames I’ve heard. One of your players is known as the toilet brush.” It seemed to take everything he had to say that with a straight face.

Urging his cheeks to return to their normal color was suddenly a hell of a lot easier for Keith once a grimace spread over his face. “Do I even want to know why?”

“You absolutely do not,” Lance said with a shake of his head, “but, speaking of toilets, would you be willing to wait for me while I use the bathroom?”

For someone with such a big mouth he sure was polite when he needed to be.

“Yeah, of course. Do you need me to hold your drink?”

“Oh! That would be super great, thank you.” He handed his cup off to Keith carefully as he got up from the couch. “I’ll be super quick – promise.”

Keith held Lance’s cup in his lap, sitting quietly in his place and wincing as he felt the undeniable arrival of a migraine, no thanks to the simply delightful music playing overhead. Still, he didn’t feel nearly as unpleasant as he had out on the porch. He felt...

 _Weird_.

According to the clock on his phone, he should have been back in his dorm, already an hour into his slumber. Instead, his ass was stubbornly stuck to his seat as he found himself besotted with even the most trivial of conversation topics that Lance had posed this evening, unable to shake the unfamiliar feeling in his gut, and maybe even kind of enjoying himself?

And, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, it wasn’t exactly difficult to. Lance was a lot more than an outspoken teenager who had previously proved just how well he could hold a grudge; he was refreshing to be around, so much so that Keith was still at the party.

Lance returned, quickly as promised and looking confused as ever as he crossed the room, tugging down the sleeves of his hoodie before he arrived in front of Keith.

“Some guy just tried to give me gummy bears while I was in the bathroom,” Lance said, scrunching up his nose as he flopped back onto the couch. “ _The bathroom_ ,” he emphasized when Keith’s dull expression clearly hadn’t been dramatic enough for him. “Like, can you even imagine the germs that could be on those?”

“Good thing you didn’t take them,” Keith commented, snickering as he handed Lance’s cup back to him. “Just a guess, but I have a feeling they’d have _quite_ the effect on you.”

Lance was already a riot when he was sober; Keith wasn’t sure he was even equipped to handle him when he wasn’t.

Lance nursed his cup between his hands, grinning back at Keith. “Yeah, you caught me, I’m kind of a nightmare on sugar.”

Keith raised an eyebrow in Lance’s direction. “Sugar?”

“Yeah?” His voice was slow, eyes darting around to see if he was missing something. Good lord.

“You don’t think someone might be handing out some _other_ kind of gummy bears in a public bathroom?”

Lance was silent for a moment, his mind visibly ticking over before...

“Oh my god.” He dropped his head against the palm of his hand. “Oh my _god_.”

Keith watched him with a strange delight, laughing at the way Lance’s cheeks turned pink almost instantly. “Are you sure you’ve been to a party before?”

“I have! I just had a craving, I didn’t even think about _that_ ,” he whined, snapping his head back up to explain himself.

“A craving for...?”

“Sugar!” He swatted at Keith’s arm, not once, but three times, scolding him for even assuming anything else. “Candy, chocolate, pop tarts!”

The touch sent a particular warmth through Keith’s chest, stripping him of whatever confidence he’d managed to gain during Lance’s embarrassment and making his stomach twist itself into nauseating knots.

Lance made nothing of Keith’s silence, relaxing back into the couch now that the teasing jabs had stopped. He took out his phone to gawk at the screen.

"Jeez, it’s getting kind of late.” He dropped his phone back into his pocket. “Are you heading back soon?"

Keith cleared his throat, rolling his shoulders back to release the tension he was unwillingly holding onto. “Are you?”

"I do have to be at the stadium pretty early tomorrow..."

“Ah, right,” Keith began, “you guys do rehearsals before the game, right?”

Lance nodded grudgingly, setting his now empty cup down on the arm of the couch. “Bright and early,” he said, smacking his lips together.

“We should probably get going, then,” Keith decided. Lance had done well to keep him from nodding off, but fatigue weighed on him, moments away from knocking him out entirely. “I can walk you back, if you like.”

God, he could have slapped himself.

Lance bit back a snort. “To my dorm?” He asked. “That’s only like, a few meters away?”

Keith released a puff of laughter, nudging Lance’s ribs with his elbow. “Shut up,” he said. Charming. “It’s further than that.”

Basking in the stupidity of Keith’s offer, Lance propped an elbow onto his knee, leaning his chin onto his hand as he maintained an unfair amount of eye contact with Keith.

“We’re on the same block,” Keith tried to justify, but his voice was meek in contrast to the volume of the room. Christ, he should have just gone back to his dorm when he had the chance instead of falling prey to the feeling in his chest that apparently wasn’t ready to take a damn hike just yet.

“I gotta say,” Lance mused, “I expected your mullet would have been enough to keep you company on the walk back.”

He— _mullet?_

Lance lapped up Keith’s reaction with great pleasure and Keith could hardly tell whether or not Lance was trying to refuel their feud or if he was trying to make Keith combust right there on the very couch they were sitting on.

That was, until Lance sighed dramatically and brought his hands back to his lap, shooting Keith an impish grin. “I guess I could join you both, though.”

“Idiot,” Keith muttered under his breath, earning himself another whack across the arm from a cackling Lance.

They passed an unconscious Matt on their way out of the party, sparking a debate about who’s responsibility he was based on extremely unfair details such as who had known him longer and who had the most stamina to carry him back with them – to which Lance made sure the answer was always ‘Keith.’

Eventually, one the boys who had been a part of the beer pong fiasco beat them to the duty while they were bickering, lifting Matt up off the floor where he lay, apologizing on Matt's behalf for how outright sloppy he looked before leaving Keith and Lance to high five in lazy triumph and get the hell out of there.

Lance chattered the entire way back to the dorms, never about anything in particular, but always capturing Keith’s attention nonetheless. He was like a chripy bird that was far too bright for a dreary winter's night such as this.

Keith tried – _tried_ – to clear his head and shed the creeping heat that swirled around in his gut, demanding his attention as Lance babbled and laughed and...

He stuffed his hands into his pockets, taking care not to crash into Lance who was swaying from one side of the sidewalk to the other as he rambled on about how they both deserved a medal for having to handle not one, but two Holt siblings, paying Keith no mind so long as he kept up his occasional hums and head nods.

Lance only fell silent when they arrived outside of his dorm, fumbling with his keys and trying to untangle the many keychains that crowded his keyring.

While his eyes were occupied elsewhere, Keith couldn’t keep himself from letting his gaze settle on the details of Lance’s face. The fluorescent lights hanging overhead in the hallway carved out the hollows of his cheeks, sharpening his jawline and reflecting on his gentle eyes.

The dorm was pitch black when Lance eventually got the door open. Clearly his dormmate hadn’t stayed up for him. What was his name again?

_Hank... Hawk... Huck...?_

“Well, uh, have a safe trip down the hall,” Lance joked in a mindful whisper, his voice shaking Keith free from his dazed trance.

“I should be okay, you know, as long as the lights don’t go out,” he returned.

“Don’t even joke, dude. Happened to me one time when I was coming back from the kitchens,” Lance warned him gravely. “Scariest moment of my life.”

“ _Wow_. I’ll take your word for it.”

Lance smiled to himself, clasping a hand around his keys so they wouldn’t jangle as he dislodged them from the lock. “You better,” he said, pointing a playful finger at Keith. “Now go the heck to sleep, man. I don’t want people blaming me for your performance tomorrow.”

He hardly had to worry. If Keith so much as stepped a foot out of line, exhausted or otherwise, _he_ would be the one dealing with criticism left, right, and center. If anything, Lance would be heralded as some kind of God given the way he’d managed to get Keith to stay out for more than an hour.

Still, he snickered and nodded his head obediently. "Got it."

“ _Night!_ ” Lance whisper-yelled at him, offering him a small wave before he turned on his phone’s flashlight and ventured carefully into the darkness of his dorm.

Keith stood outside his door for a moment too long, staring at it as though doing so would make the incessant thumping off his heart that he didn't want to understand just... _stop_.

So much for sleep.

The common room slowly filled up with students as the morning drew on. Keith had been up for a few hours, already having finished his first breakfast and now onto his second following his return from training.

He didn’t usually sit in the common room, at least not to eat his meals. It was a decently nice area, sure, but there was always some kind of liquid split on the tables and a faint hiss coming from one of the power outlets that _definitely_ wasn’t a good sign. Today; however, was different.

He brought a spoonful of bland cereal up to his lips, keeping a vigilant lookout over the entrance, averting his eyes whenever someone walked in. He wasn’t expecting anybody. No, he was just eating breakfast outside of his dorm for once, where anyone at all could find him and strike up a conversation – or something.

His eyes were only pulled away from the door once his mindless scoops began returning nothing but the dregs of his bowl. He was full, that much he was certain of after he'd stuffed a massive portion of bacon and eggs down his throat earlier, but a second bowl would grant him more time at his table without making him look all kinds of suspicious.

Keith let out a quiet groan at his antics, but familiar voices interrupted him before he could collect his bowl and spoon and retreat from his master plan, heading back down to the field like he really should have half an hour ago.

Shiro, Adam, and Matt arrived at the entrance of the common room, loud as ever before the sight of Keith effectively silenced them, plastering amusement across their faces instead. The three of them reached Keith’s table with unnerving smiles.

“Glad you got home safe,” Shiro said as Adam moved to the coffee pot on the counter beside them, making a disapproving grunt at the grime collecting on the base of the pot.

There was something about Shiro's tone that forced Keith’s eyes back to his bowl, resigning to pouring himself another serving of cereal if for no other reason than to avoid any and all subjects the other's were about to pose.

Shiro pulled up a chair, Matt following suit despite Keith’s glare wordlessly telling him not to.

“What happened to coming home early?” Shiro asked, keeping his voice low but his brows high, looking very content with the way Keith's body froze up.

Oh, god.

“Yeah, Keith, you didn’t walk _me_ home.” Matt feigned offence, garnering a snort from Adam and the momentary attention of nearby students with his not-so-considerate volume.

Keith’s expression turned dark, triggering Shiro and Matt to snigger between themselves. “How do you know about that?”

“Pidge,” they said in unison.

Of fucking course. Lance was absolutely right; he did deserve a medal for putting up with the Holts. He also probably deserved everything he had coming to him considering he hadn’t exactly been in the dark about the fact that Lance was friends with the tiny snitching traitor.

Keith let out a sigh before slumping back into his chair as Adam returned to the table empty-handed.

“It was nothing, okay?” They looked unconvinced. “It’s not exactly like I went out of my way,” he continued. “My dorm is literally right down the hall.”

Adam’s lips curled into a smile. “From what he told Pidge, Lance seemed to think it was nice.”

He’d told his friends about it? It was barely even nine o’clock. Surely it hadn’t been that memorable to him.

“Sure,” he offered calmly, “it was nice. That’s all.”

Shiro raised a brow. “That’s all?”

“ _Yes,_ that’s all.” Keith pointed an accusing finger at Matt. “If _you_ hadn’t have passed out on the floor I would’ve let you handle it. He’s your friend.”

Adam frowned at Matt over the brim of his glasses. “You passed out on the floor?”

“Details,” Matt said, waving the issue away with his hand. “Still awfully sweet of you, Keithy.” He grinned, looking awfully peppy for someone who should be painfully hungover.

Shiro took the spoon out of Keith’s hand, shoveling a few spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth. “Well, anyhow, we’ve got to leave in a second for a presentation,” he said, “so we might not be able to make it to the game today.”

Keith shrugged. “S'alright, I’ll see you later anyway,” he reasoned.

Shiro nodded, swallowing one more mouthful of Keith’s food before handing the spoon back to him and getting to his feet.

“Oh, don’t come over too late tonight. Matt’s bringing some movies over.”

“Can’t wait,” Keith said dryly.

“Hey, it’s gonna be a riot and you know it.” But after being subjected to a movie about zombie beavers the last time Matt came over, Keith was doubtful.

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re no fun, honestly,” Matt muttered, standing to join Shiro and Adam beside the table.

“We’ll see ya later, kiddo,” Shiro said, “and don’t stress too much out there, alright? You’ll be just fine.” He ruffled Keith’s hair affectionately before linking hands with Adam and heading out into the hall, Matt following right behind them.

Keith stayed seated for a moment longer, taming his unruly hair back down and pushing the last few cornflakes in his bowl around with his spoon.

The clock on the wall ticked on, and it became apparent that regardless of why he had come down to the common room and whether or not he was ready to admit that to himself, he really couldn’t afford to hang about any longer unless he wanted to miss the game entirely.

But Lance couldn’t have picked a worse time to stroll into the space, holding a bowl of steaming food in his hands and perking up the moment he caught sight of Keith.

He paused in the doorway, twisting his smile into a measured smirk. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Keith supposed a few more minutes wouldn’t hurt...

“Yep, and drinking my own ice tea, just so you know.” He raised the bottle he hadn’t even opened yet up to his head, turning it from side to side to prove that it was nameless.

Lance covered his mouth with one hand as he made his way over to Keith’s table. “Wow,” he breathed, “they grow up so fast.”

Keith fiddled with the spoon in his hand, his attention quickly drawn to the aroma that was circling Lance’s bowl that was filled with some sort of pasta dish. It didn’t smell like campus takeout or amateur home cooking. It smelled like _real food_.

“Did you make that?”

Lance barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “No way,” he said, “I’m not bad in the kitchen, but this baby is one of Hunk’s food miracles.”

“He’s good in the kitchen?”

“ _Good?_ Dude, he’s the eighth wonder of the world. A goddamn Michelin star chef in the making.”

Keith quirked a brow, but whatever he was about to say about how doubtful he was that a Michelin star chef was hiding at Altea State was quickly cut off by Lance taking the spoon from Keith’s grip, sticking it into his own bowl and thrusting it back at him.

“Here,” he said.

“Oh, no, really—”

“Seriously, try it,” Lance insisted, “it’s too magnificent to keep to myself. Plus, I wanna brag about how I get to eat stuff this good all the time.”

Keith hesitantly took the spoon, now filled, back from Lance, bringing it up to his lips as casually as he could with Lance watching him like a hawk.

And shit, Lance wasn’t kidding. He snickered at Keith’s widening eyes, nodding at the reaction he'd been expecting. “Right?”

“And he just cooks this stuff for you? For free?” Even when Keith had a dormmate, the best thing they’d ever cooked together was mac and cheese – that they heated up out of a packet in the microwave.

Lance picked his bowl back up off the table. “Well, I give him the gift of my fantastic company, so it all balances out.”

Keith laughed, slipping out of his chair and collecting his dishes in his arms. “I’m sure,” he mused, "but as fantastic as it might be, I think my coach might send an entire military regiment to find me if I don’t get down to the field soon.”

“Go ahead,” Lance said, sprouting a shit-eating grin not a moment later, “hopefully our band doesn’t bore you too much when we start our rehearsals down there soon. And, you know, good luck and stuff, I guess.”

Yeah. Keith was definitely going to be paying attention to the band, boring or not, a hell of a lot more today.


End file.
